


to hold and to keep

by Duskscribe, shatou



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Anakin Skywalker, Bottom Obi-Wan Kenobi, Car Sex, Cock warming (mentioned), Come Eating, Consensual Somnophilia, Crying Anakin Skywalker, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Humor, Hand Feeding, Homage to Matthew Stover’s A+ Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Massage, Mutual Pining, Post-Zygerria Arc (Star Wars: Clone Wars), Requited Unrequited Love, Semi-Public Sex, Sparring, Speeder Bikes (Star Wars), Top Anakin Skywalker, Top Obi-Wan Kenobi, anyway yes the prologue and epilogue are, padme/satine (mentioned), past obi-wan/satine (mentioned), stuck in a box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duskscribe/pseuds/Duskscribe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: Anakin thinks Obi-Wan doesn’t love. Obi-Wan thinks he shouldn’t love. Somehow, all while believing their respective feelings are unrequited, they still manage to behave like the most married couple ever.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 92
Kudos: 372
Collections: SW Especially Satisfying Stories, favourite fics from a galaxy far far away





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your Master is utterly, unbelievably, heart-achingly beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day!
> 
> Please check out the end notes for a quick directory of which chapters correspond to which tags, if you’re looking for a specific trope.

This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker, forever:

You are a Jedi Knight. Before you were a Knight, you were a Padawan. Like almost all Padawans, you had the choice to move into your own quarters when you reached around fourteen years of age, but you didn't. Back then, it was because of the nightmares. Now, it's altogether different. It's all because of your Master.

Your Master was the first Jedi to have slain a Sith in a millennium, and he was only a Padawan then. Your Master is two footsteps away from having a seat on the Council, and he would be the youngest to do so then. Your Master sets precedents. Your Master is calm, collected, compassionate but coolly detached. Your Master does not love.

Which kills you inside, because your Master is utterly, unbelievably, heart-achingly beautiful.

So, picture this: You're twenty and a grown Jedi, and you still share quarters with your Master. You will always wake up to his slightly rumpled silhouette in the kitchenette, and he will always be glowing at the edges with the light of after-dawn, a light that burns you. You will always go to bed knowing the only thing between your bed and his is this wall, this unassailable wall, just like the invisible walls around his heart. 

You liked to think it would get better with time: the more you saw him, the more you would get used to seeing him. And you did. And that is the problem. You are so used to seeing him, that the sight of him is not only dear to you, it's a necessity. It doesn't get better with time; it gets worse. His smile makes you stutter and his laughter launches you into overdrive. You know there is no way he will ever feel towards you a fraction of what you feel towards him. There is no way he would want you the way you want to be wanted. In this silent, tender suffering, there is only you.

You brave on. You will your mind to turn elsewhere, but your heart will not forget. It can't forget how to beat faster when he brushes past you, how to skip or stop when he gets so close his breath fans over your neck, how to thrum like a possessed instrument when he praises you with gentle eyes. And maybe you don't want it to forget.

That’s where you are wrong, you think. Your kind are steel-winged moths all circling around a fire that you teach each other not to fall into, not realizing that just staring at the fire kindles one within yourself. You grew up in the desert; you knew better than to look directly at the suns. But when the suns look at you, you want to look back.

Maybe you want to burn. Maybe you want to burn in your own flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Directory note:
> 
> Chapter 1-4 and 8 are pure fluff, humor, pining and introspection  
> Chapter 5 contains explicit smut, featuring: first time, love confession, speeder sex, semi-public, top Anakin and bottom Obi-Wan  
> Chapter 6 is the post-Zygerria fixit, with a warning for semi-graphic injury descriptions and mention of slavery  
> Chapter 7 contains explicit smut, featuring: consensual somnophilia, mention of cockwarming, come eating, bottom Anakin and top Obi-Wan


	2. slow as you’d like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s always Anakin’s smile. His passion. The righteous anger with which he defends his convictions, and the fact that, after everything, he can still look upon the galaxy as one where honor and truth and fairness matter.

A routine is a routine. Obi-Wan always finds safety in such prospects. He gets up. He sees the boy who would be his apprentice, then his apprentice, then the man who has outgrown him. They eat together. They undergo missions together. Any unseemly thoughts or feelings are contained, then released back into the Force. He’d always thought of the Force as a cycle, an endless ebb and flow - perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him, then, when the feelings always come back. 

It’s always Anakin’s smile. His passion. The righteous anger with which he defends his convictions, and the fact that, after everything, he can still look upon the galaxy as one where honor and truth and fairness matter. Naivety, some would say, but Obi-Wan chooses to think of it as a bright, boundless hope. It is a beautiful thing to behold.

The need to suppress these thoughts has only grown clearer with time. Now he must make an active effort to fend them off, all of them, every night when he goes to bed, every morning when he leaves his room. On some days it’s harder than others. Some days such as today, Obi-Wan thinks, as he enters the kitchenette only to be met with the sight of Anakin leaning against the counter’s edge and running a hand through sleep-mussed hair that he never bothers to brush - in stark contrast to Obi-Wan himself: robes in place, hair brushed, beard trimmed, ready to start the day (even if he is limping just a little, from an injury the day before). 

“Good morning, Master.” Anakin tilts his head at him with that ever playful half-smile. A caf moka is whistling on the stove. Beside it, the teakettle is already at a boil, steam puffing from the spout.

“Good morning, Anakin,” Obi-Wan greets, stifling a yawn as he leans up to fetch their mugs. His arm brushes Anakin’s shoulder a bit. “Rest well?”

"Fine," Anakin replies. "How'd you sleep?" He shuffles to the stovetop to get both the moka and the teakettle. When he turns back, his eyes are on Obi-Wan’s ankle, and he frowns. "Are you sure you're fine to leave the healing halls, Master?"

Obi-Wan gives him a rather wry look, straightening up as he selects a mug for them each (grabbing them by random, he appears to have taken one in the shape of an astromech, and one that reads _Blow me, I’m hot_ in Huttese, as far as he’s aware. He leaves the astromech for Anakin). “You’re one to talk. As I recall, you snuck from the halls with a fairly severe concussion last month. I’m not even your Master, and I got a severe talking to about that.”

"Because I was fine." Anakin rolls his eyes, taking the mug. His caf steams in the air. "Besides, if I _didn't_ leave the hall and fly straight to Myrhaa, you were going to be eaten alive. You know you would." Funny how easy it is to laugh about that now when, Obi-Wan recalls, Anakin was near tears when he found him. 

“I had it perfectly under control,” Obi-Wan insists (mostly to be a contrarian - Force knows how he still requires Anakin’s help). He pours himself some tea before straightening up and catching the odd look on Anakin’s face, all avoidant eyes and pink ears. He arches an eyebrow, and Anakin only shrugs in reply, pointedly sipping his caf. “...Nonetheless, I’ll be fine. There’s nothing too strenuous planned for today - Master Yoda has declared that I lead a session with some junior Padawans.”

"I remember that. It's the one with the Form III demonstration, right?" Anakin finally smiles a little. "Maybe I'll drop by when I'm done for the day. I don't have much going today either. Been a while since we sparred, eh, Master?"

“I’d welcome the company, Anakin, but the sparring match has to be saved for another time.” Obi-Wan turns to open the pantry. “The healers may just lose their patience and tie me down to a bed if they find I’ve been sparring on my bad ankle.” 

Anakin lights up, like he’s been waiting to hear Obi-Wan say that. “So you _were_ supposed to be resting more! I knew it!”

“Anakin, if you don’t stop fussing over me, you’ll be having more greys than I do by the end of this war,” Obi-Wan quips idly, pulling out a box of pastries - how fortunate that he still has some leftover from the lovely Twi’lek bakery downtown - and setting it on the table before taking a seat. He hums his delight, as he selects one from the box and takes a bite, spilling powdered sugar over his beard.

The lack of a comeback from Anakin prompts Obi-Wan to glance up, just in time to see Anakin’s tongue dart between his lips. Sunlight glistens on his lips, unfairly tempting. It takes all of his self-control to not fixate on that and gauge the source of Anakin’s… gesture. 

“Hungry?” Obi-Wan inquires, lifting up a pastry toward Anakin. He knows his former Padawan doesn’t share his same sweet tooth, but it wouldn’t be fair to hog it all on his own. “I could be coerced into sharing.”

Anakin lags for a moment, his gaze somewhere off-center from the pastry Obi-Wan is holding up. He refocuses before Obi-Wan could mention it, and laughs, a little faint. “Sure,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the chair.

And bites directly from the pastry in Obi-Wan’s hand.

“Hey!” Obi-Wan protests - but not strongly enough to jerk the pastry away, just watching as Anakin’s lips close over the treat. The powdered sugar clings to his pink lips, and maybe Obi-Wan’s face flushes just a bit in response. “You act like such a Loth-wolf, at times.” His voice has softened to fond exasperation, and he couldn’t stop his smile if he’d tried.

“Mm?” Anakin lifts his head, lips pulled up in the fashion of a grin even as he chews. “What, Master? You offered,” he says, words terribly warped by the big bite in his mouth. He swallows and licks the sugar from his lips. 

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Obi-Wan chastises, though he’s more amused than anything. The teasing lightens his mood enough for him to remain still and not question it as Anakin closes his fingers around his wrist to keep his hand there. His Loth-wolf-like apprentice, all sweet youth and roguish charm, takes bite after bite of pastry from his very hand. Laughter dies down, and Obi-Wan hears only his own heartbeat.

Once Anakin’s eaten it all, he brushes a bit of powdered sugar off from Anakin’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, his smile far too fond. “What am I to do with you?”

“Well, Master,“ Anakin begins, a tad breathless, “you could petition the Council to put us together more often.” He grins. “Then you could do whatever.”

“And give credence to their claims of favoritism? Hardly.” He ruffles Anakin’s hair (with the hand free of sugar, of course), smiling as he pulls away. “You can’t rely too heavily on your dear old Master, hm?”

“Who said I was going to rely on you?” Anakin huffs, his ears flushing again. He bats Obi-Wan’s hand away, lightly. Perhaps Obi-Wan is only imagining it, but it feels as if Anakin’s knuckles are deliberately lingering on the warm inside of his wrist. “ _Somebody_ needs to keep an eye on you, Master.”

“Hardly,” Obi-Wan dismisses, rather amused as he sips his tea. “As I remember it, _I_ didn’t need to be pulled out of dumpsters and back alley pod races.”

“That was years ago,” Anakin says, elbowing Obi-Wan in the flank, as if he wouldn’t do it again in a heartbeat if he could afford to. “ _I_ am not the one who pilots without a seatbelt and crashes through windows. And if I do”—he leans close in a mock glare—“I learned it all from you, Master.”

Their faces are rather exceedingly close like this - which is, to be quite frank, not out of the ordinary; such things happen often and casually, for that is what a decade of sharing quarters and even the same fresher cubicle does for you. There is still some sugar left on Anakin’s lips, just so, and—

There is no time for that. Obi-Wan huffs. “Not that I ever had the privilege of witnessing the pod racing prodigy of Tatooine, but as Qui-Gon used to say it, you hardly wore a seatbelt then.”

Anakin laughs. “That’s because the thing didn’t _have_ a seatbelt, my dear old Master.”

“A fault of the builder, I would say,” Obi-Wan points out. “Something to improve upon with your next model.” He glances at the chronometer on the wall, and sighs - shame that he and Anakin just can’t have a lazy day (a terribly un-Jedi like thought, is it not?). “I should be getting ready to go. What are your plans for the day?”

“There’s a committee of, er, treaty negotiation with mining corporations,” Anakin half-says, half-groans. “It’s in the Metropolitan Convention Hall outside of the Senate. I have to escort all the delegations from the landing hub to there.”

“Mm. Corporate executives, I presume,” Obi-Wan muses, grimacing in sympathy as he rises to his feet. “Best of luck, Anakin. Remember that silence is the best thing you can say to those sorts.” His hand drops to Anakin’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze.

"It's alright, Master." Anakin nods and smiles, a little more ironic now, though the edge is not at all directed at Obi-Wan. "I don't plan on making conversations."

Obi-Wan bids him one last goodbye before heading out to the class. There’s something amusing in the seriousness with which the Padawans conduct themselves. He knows he was just as intent at that age, wanting to prove himself to a Master who he didn’t connect with until it seemed far too late, but there’s a certain sweetness in their desire to learn. He takes them through the origins of the Form, it’s advantages and disadvantages, and shows them several holovids of correct techniques before pairing them off into partners. The Padawans lock blades and jump apart and back again, some of them beginning to orbit their lightsaber in an earnest mimicry of Obi-Wan's techniques.

As they spar, he goes from pair to pair, praising and making gentle adjustments here or there. “Excellent footwork, Aunan,” he sets his hand on a small shoulder, coaxing the Padawan’s arms and elbows into relaxation, “but not so stiff - allow the Force to flow through you, to guide you.”

There’s a certain warmth at the very edge of the room, like the first rays of morning sun peeking up over the edge of a windowsill. It’s enough to bring a smile to Obi-Wan’s face before he even has the sense to realize what it is - or rather, who it is. He straightens up with that same smile, looking out across the training room to meet Anakin’s eyes. His onetime apprentice is leaning against the doorframe, eyes sweeping from student to student, watching with an absentminded smile, There’s something about his loosely casual air that never fails to warm Obi-Wan, the familiarity all too comforting. 

“Ah, Knight Skywalker,” he calls out across the room, little heads turning to watch Anakin with wide eyes (he’s earned himself quite a reputation, and for good reason). Anakin grins back, uncrossing his arms to wave at them. 

“How nice of you to join us. Care to lend a hand?”

"Master Kenobi," Anakin lilts, the formality playful and bright on his tongue. "Of course. A hand is all I have." He holds up his gloved mechno-arm, wiggling his fingers, earning himself a few giggles across the room. He greets the Padawans as he walks in, giving a head pat here and an ‘Oh, I remember you from the Gathering’ there. (With how often he has to go to Ilum for a new kyber, Obi-Wan suspects he knows more than half the room since their Initiate days.) "Alright. What are we doing?"

“I believe a live demonstration could be helpful,” Obi-Wan says, gesturing the students back. They all perk up at the notion, scattering back to form a large circle around the two Jedi, nudging and whispering as they face each other. Obi-Wan selects two of the wooden practice sabers from the wall, tossing one to Anakin. “Nothing too strenuous, please. The healers may not forgive me if I have to return.”

Anakin catches the saber and straightens up, not faltering in either stance or smile. "Don't worry, Master. I'll go as slow as you'd like."

Obi-Wan pauses, blinking, and immediately chastises himself for even considering the possibility of… suggestive subtext in Anakin’s words. Anakin is his former apprentice, prone to teasing, and that is all. There is nothing more to it.

They pace a few feet apart and turn to face each other, swinging their wooden sabers down in a slow, diagonal arch before bowing and falling into position. Seeing Anakin in his own favored Soresu opening stance - going into it so easily, too, despite the fact that it has been years since Anakin chose to specialize in a different form - sparks such tender warmth in Obi-Wan’s chest. Someday he will have to challenge Anakin to a match in Djem So to see how he holds up, that’s for sure.

A moment is spent evaluating, before Obi-Wan darts forward, a bit slower than he usually would. Anakin parries him with ease, his movement just as unhurried so as to make it easy for the students to observe. Their blades meet in a resounding _clack_ before Anakin pulls back to gain momentum. He brings the wooden saber down towards Obi-Wan's thigh in an almost gentle arch, and Obi-Wan blocks it with a reverse.

There’s something oddly meditative about sparring with Anakin. They both know each other well enough to create something like a predictability in their blows, all while demonstrating in all sincerity without prior staging. Even while practicing the same form, Anakin is notably different from himself. His orbits are sharp and tight, and now that he’s focusing on it, his defense as iron-wrought as his attacks would have been, were he fighting in his usual form. His strikes are precise, every slash doubling as a preemptive parry; though not yet so optimized, Anakin being so prone to excess force in his movements. 

“You see, two Jedi engaging in Form III may create a battle that lasts until the end of ages,” Obi-Wan explains to the group of huddled Padawans. “Though it provides little opportunity for a counterattack, Form III allows for one’s opponent to tire, eventually giving a perfect opening.”

One hit, then another, their blades knock and rap and scrape against each other, showing off the sheer defense capabilities of such a form, fitting the two of them together like cogwheels, wrapping their sparring into one same whole rather than two opposing forces. It feels more like a dance, and neither of them have even broken a sweat. The slow speed allows Obi-Wan to loosen his focus and admire the golden curls swept back from Anakin’s forehead with movements, the beginning of a flush on his cheek, the lopsided smile on his ever so red lips. It's a blessing to see Anakin like this, playful and at peace amidst young learners rather than gritty and tense on the battlefield.

"That's right," Anakin chimes in, whipping his practice saber up for a mildly sudden attack. Obi-Wan responds to the movement in kind, blocking just as easily as it had come. It presents a mild uptick in their tempo, though they continue to move in perfect time, light on their feet, flashing easy smiles at one another between blows and dodges. Obi-Wan knows he should take it easy, and preserve his leg, but… Well, there is no harm in appreciating an opportunity to show off - and he doubts the Padawans would mind, either. He gives a sudden slash up, aiming for Anakin’s sword hand.

Anakin staggers for a fraction of a second, the blade hitting his gloved wrist with a loud, dull _thwack_.

"Well," the Knight says, huffing out a laugh as he holds onto his weapon, "if that were a lightsaber I'd be losing that hand. A second time.”

He whirls around and goes for Obi-Wan's side, faster and harsher than Obi-Wan could have expected, even with the quickened pace of their dance. He couldn’t react as fast as he should be, hindered as he is by the wound in his ankle. Anakin’s wooden saber strikes him smack in the flank, forcing a grunt from him.

Obi-Wan stabilizes and furls back into neutral position, paying their audience a wry smile. “And if that were a lightsaber, I’d be gone. This is an important lesson to always account for one’s weaknesses - even the slightest overconfidence can be deadly.”

Anakin steps back when he does, his triumphant smile fading. "Especially if you're injured, or impaired in any way," Anakin adds pointedly, one brow raised at Obi-Wan and his ankle. There’s no subtlety there. As they say, count on your former student to notice things about you that are imperceptible to others’ eyes.

“Wise addition, my young friend,” Obi-Wan says, handing his practice saber over when Anakin holds out his hand. "Does anybody have any questions?"

A good amount of hands (and claws, and paws) rise in the air, and the rest of the session is spent answering the students. Soon it is over, and Obi-Wan is left smiling as he watches the Padawans file out, excitedly chatting about what they’d learned. Leading these group classes is always so awarding - particularly when he has the help. The sky turns a gorgeous gold orange beyond the window, and it's only the two of them left in the room.

“How was your day?” Obi-Wan asks as he begins to clear up the room, tossing Anakin the wooden practice sabers without the need to even look. Not a single one of them clack to the ground - Anakin catches them all perfectly.

“It was alright.” Anakin laughs, but doesn’t sound very enthusiastic. “They might as well have been speaking Ancient Sith for all I know. ‘Trade barrier’ this and ‘de-regulation’ that… I didn’t understand a single thing.” He stuffs the practice sabers into the drawer by bundles. “I wasn’t supposed to, anyway.”

Obi-Wan glances at him sympathetically. “They needed a Jedi’s presence to ensure order. I’m sure you did well, Anakin.”

“Yeah, well.” Anakin shrugs, hand shooting up to catch the next wooden saber and arranges them into the drawer. “The job just felt useless, Master. I could have been on a battlefield or a relief mission or… anything. Not protecting wealthy tradesmen who are afraid for their lives because they _should_ be.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan begins, stepping closer until he’s right behind his former Padawan. In Anakin’s sullen, flippant remarks, there is a germ of darkness, gleaming black like blood under the moonlight. He sets a hand on Anakin’s back, splayed right behind his heart. “You have every right to be frustrated by the state of the galaxy, Anakin. Force knows I am. But our place is not to judge; only to lend aid to those in need, to the best of our ability.” _As restrained as we are politically._

Anakin’s shoulder droops. Their shadows shiver as they both let out a sigh. And then Anakin's stomach growls in the quiet of the room.

"You didn't hear that, Master," Anakin says, indignant, putting the last of the practice saber away. Yet there is an obvious huff of stifled laughter in his breath.

Obi-Wan smiles in relief. He shakes his head at Anakin’s clear denial, playfully nudging against his side. “We best get something to eat, then. I feel just as starved as you sound.”


	3. warm as ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Force, I’m going to be sore tonight,” Obi-Wan mutters.

“I think that’s the one,” Anakin says, voice lower than a breath.

They’re standing in the blind spot of the security droids, behind one stack of containers amongst many others. The containers are full of electronic apparel parts, as this is the warehouse of an electronics company - but that is not exactly their concern. It’s the vehicle that they’re after: the cargo ship bearing the logo of a well-known logistics corporation in the galaxy. There have been reports that cargo ships from this particular corporation have been funneling spice throughout the Inner Rim. Usually, such petty drug dealings wouldn't be under the Order's attention - but it seems that those who come in contact with trace chemicals contained in this particular type of spice cause violent bouts of mania, delusions, and ultimately, death. 

“Now how do we get on that ship?” If they destroy the security droids, the ship’s automated sensors would record it all, and the cargo trip would probably be canceled. If they destroy the ship’s sensors first, the security droids would have enough time to record them and alarm the rest of the warehouse chains. This is something they both know. “Master, do you have a plan?”

Obi-Wan strokes his beard, frowning as he surveys the situation.

"...I have an inkling," he finally says, beckoning at Anakin to follow him as the droids make their rounds. They only have a few precious moments before the droids are to be back. Obi-Wan quickly pries off the lid of one of the containers, and gestures towards the inside of it.

Anakin would have laughed if it wasn’t for the dead serious look on his Master’s face.

“ _This_ is your inkling?” he incredulously whispers, casting another glance back at the security droids. They’re approaching.

“Do you have a better idea?” Obi-Wan huffs back. “Pray tell if you do.”

They don’t have much time to lose; hesitate any longer and they’re only going to expose themselves and ruin the entire operation. Anakin rolls his eyes and climbs in. There’s not nearly enough room for his damn legs no matter which way he folds them, so he spreads them, one leg pressed to each wall, as he flattens himself to one corner of the container.

Obi-Wan pauses for a split second. Anakin doesn’t have time to feel smug at Obi-Wan’s fleeting look of realization - that the damn container is barely large enough for one person, much less _two_ \- because his Master grimaces and lowers himself atop him anyway. The lid settles down just in time for the droids to walk by.

His Master ends up nearly plastered against him, close to sitting on his lap in order to properly fit.

"Your legs are too long," Obi-Wan grumbles.

“This thing is too small,” Anakin quips, even as his heart speeds up.

It’s both too dark to see and too cramped for them to look each other in the face. Small blessings, Anakin supposes, because then all he has to do is to try to keep his body from getting… excited, by the proximity. Obi-Wan isn’t in any more comfortable position than he is, curled up and contorted this way. And yet, the crown of Obi-Wan’s head is just below Anakin’s nose, near enough for Anakin to catch a whiff of his shampoo, near enough for Anakin to imagine leaning down and press his lips to—

“This is going to be a long trip,” he mutters, face heating up.

“We don’t have to stay like this the whole way,” Obi-Wan assures in a whisper. “Just until we’re in hyperspace.”

“It’ll take a while,” Anakin whispers back. “They’re still loading the containers onto the ship.”

Obi-Wan is right, though. Most surveillance systems have an automatic shutdown upon entering hyperspace as a power saving measure - it would be the perfect opportunity for them to evaluate the rest of the cargo hold and stretch their legs. The problem is, Anakin doesn’t think he even _wants_ to part.

After a while, his arms start to get numb from being folded against his legs. Anakin wraps them around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. All it does is to effectively hold Obi-Wan to his chest, but he doesn’t have a choice. (And, as embarrassed as he is, it isn’t like he’s not rejoicing at the excuse.)

The good news is that Obi-Wan doesn’t seem to mind so much. The bad news is also that Obi-Wan doesn’t seem to mind so much. He doesn’t seem to mind at all, actually, leaning against Anakin and _sighing_ against his chest and damn it if Anakin doesn’t feel like his luminous core is going to melt out of his crude matter and ascend straight to the higher Force realm.

No, his Master is doing this because there’s no room to spread out, of course. He shouldn’t think too much. He shouldn’t think anything of it at all.

“Now would be the perfect time to practice your meditation skills,” Obi-Wan muses.

Anakin has to wonder if his Master just read his thoughts. Well, he would know if Obi-Wan did that, but let’s just say paranoia is inherent to keeping secrets. He huffs out a breathy laugh and rests his cheek against Obi-Wan’s head. It’s rather comforting like this, despite everything, especially when the warehouse is rather cold. “And then what, you’re going to grade me, Master?”

“Perhaps. Unless you’re so worried that you’d fail?” There’s a teasing note in Obi-Wan’s voice as he says it, resting his weight a touch more on Anakin.

Anakin humphs. “Master, you know I’ve never failed a class.” Obi-Wan is so warm against him, and he seems to be relaxing - as much as one could relax when stuffed into a box like some hapless wooden puppets, anyway. “Well, what do I get if I pass?”

“Bragging rights, certainly. We both know passive meditation has never been your strong suit.” Obi-Wan shifts in a way that makes it seem like he’s pressing his ear to Anakin’s heart. Anakin prays to every deity whose name he still remembers that Obi-Wan doesn't notice the mad pounding in his chest. “And I could be tempted to giving you a blank check.”

Anakin is absentminded enough to stroke into Obi-Wan’s hair (his hand is right there at the back of his neck! How is he supposed to help it?). He promptly shifts his hand away when he realizes what he’s done, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to do it again. “Oh? You’d let me do _anything_ , Master?” he laughs quietly, tilting his head as if there is any way to catch Obi-Wan’s face. “Alright, I’ll—“

The container is picked up with a loud _clang_ on the outside. Anakin gasps. The movements jostle them both, and he instinctively tucks Obi-Wan tighter to his chest with a grumble. Obi-Wan holds onto him more securely, pressing his face into Anakin’s collarbone. The container is dropped so harshly it makes his teeth rattle. Anakin doesn't loosen his arms; he keeps wrapping himself around Obi-Wan as if he could absorb the impact around them before it could reach his Master. 

So much for meditation.

“Ugh,” Obi-Wan mutters once the droids’ footsteps fade away again. “They certainly don’t _act_ as if they’re carrying electronics.”

"Highly suspicious if you ask me," Anakin mumbles, sighing harshly. How much longer until the cargo ship is loaded? He shifts a bit, trying to reach out with the Force to scan the environment. There's still a considerable amount of containers, it seems. The process seems endless - more containers to bring, one after another, a cacophony of durasteel banging and rattling droids. Meanwhile, Obi-Wan just rests against him. He seems entirely content where he is, and his gentle mood is contagious. 

“Just as warm as ever,” his Master remarks, at some point. “I should bring you the next time I’m stationed for a place like Hoth.”

Anakin grins, surprised and pleased, blushing a little. Tentatively, he strokes Obi-Wan’s hair again - since he didn’t seem to mind last time. "You should," he hums his assent. "And you know, if you're ever cold you can just scoot closer, Master. I don't bite. Not anymore."

Obi-Wan breathes a quiet groan. “Please don’t bring that up again,” he grumbles. “I was wondering if you’d ever grow out of your rowdy phase.”

"You make it sound like it was so bad." Anakin rests his head back, his fingers going from repetitive motions to playing with Obi-Wan's hair. Obi-Wan breathes yet another titillating slow sigh and Anakin firmly believes he deserves a gold star medal for staying this calm, meditating or not. He clears his voice. "It wasn't a phase, Master. I stopped when they stopped spewing bantha kark about you. Actually, that was also when they started talking about how _handsome_ you are and your absolutely _enormous_ c—"

“Anakin, _please_ do not go into it—”

“—charisma!” Anakin laughs breathily, his chest shaking under Obi-Wan's warm weight. “Enormous charisma!”

“Have mercy on your old Master, would you?” Obi-Wan grumbles, and Anakin can hear the grimace in his voice. “That’s almost worse to hear of.”

"What, does Master Kenobi not want to hear about how popular he is?"

Obi-Wan pointedly prods at his rib. Anakin's breath hitches, which he masks with another huffed laugh. At least teasing Obi-Wan makes him think less about, well, himself, and how much he wants Obi-Wan's hands on him.

“I would rather not,” Obi-Wan says flatly. “And you’re hardly one to talk. You get plenty of looks yourself.”

"Oh really? You've been keeping track, Master?" Anakin quips, this time actually needing to muffle his laughter into Obi-Wan's hair. He has an excuse to do that, so it's fine.

“Difficult not to. I always have to evaluate if I’d actually want you for undercover missions or not, considering how you stand out in a crowd.”

Anakin can't tell if that's a compliment or a tease. "Well, considering you've never done that, Master, you should do it for a change.”

Just then, something slams outside. The rattling and clanging has stopped, and the low droning of engines begins to vibrate all the way into the container. Anakin perks up, listening, extending his senses in the Force. "...Hm. I think we're about to take off."

Obi-Wan breathes a sigh of relief at that, shifting just a bit. “Good - hopefully we won’t be traveling sublight for very long. As nice as it is to be in your arms, Padawan mine, I’m not meant to be twisted up like this.”

Anakin slumps (as much as he can slump, anyway, pressed between Obi-Wan and the container's side like this) with the greatest groan. "You just have to say those kinds of things, don't you," he grumbles, and doesn't elaborate, just holds his Master fast to his chest while pretending to shift his position for comfort.

The circumstances are not exactly ideal, for him to imagine this is anything other than Obi-Wan being pressed to him because they're stuffed into a box to get on with their mission - but the sensation, at least, is good. Holding Obi-Wan is good, playing with his hair is good, and having Obi-Wan relax against him and grip him back is infinitely good. Shame that it is going to end any moment now; better savor while it lasts.

Another moment passes, before they finally make that telltale lurch into hyperspace. Obi-Wan grips him tight, and Anakin swallows thickly. Once all the surfaces around them ease into a usual hum, he relaxes. “There we are. Would you please try to pry open the latch? I can’t get the right leverage.”

"Yeah, let me see," Anakin says, reaching up. The latch is on the diagonally opposite edge from him, and as long-armed as he is, he can't really open it while remaining nearly on his back like this. He twists over and tries to crane himself forward (skies forbid he uses the Force 'unnecessarily’ right in front of his proper old Master), reaching for the diagonally opposite edge.

“Anakin, wait—”

Too late. The container topples over, and Anakin’s reflex is only sharp enough to cushion their fall. There is no sound, but the artificial gravity still does its job, so now Anakin finds himself nestled perfectly between Obi-Wan’s legs. In front of them, the latch has opened from impact, the lid ajar, letting in a crack of dim light.

“Ah, excellent,” Obi-Wan deadpans.

“You get out first, Master,” Anakin offers, chivalrous and red-faced.

Obi-Wan pauses just long enough for Anakin to feel his senses extending via the Force. There are no glimmers of ill intent around them, so he slowly pushes the lid open. He looks around for a moment, then proceeds to wriggle out of Anakin’s arms and crawls out from beneath him. There is a split second where Anakin's face is more or less directly in his Master's crotch. Just a split second. Anakin feels a little faint.

The cargo hold is blessedly unoccupied, judging by Obi-Wan’s reaction. He sighs his relief, straightens up and removes the lid entirely before offering a hand down to Anakin. “Force, I’m going to be sore tonight,” he mutters.

Anakin is fairly sure Obi-Wan isn’t making all of these double entendre on purpose, because—well just _look_ at his utterly innocent face, the old man is too oblivious for his own good. He takes his Master’s hand and climbs out with a light blush still dusting his cheeks. “I can help you with that.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow. “If you’re about to suggest that I go to the healers, I may be forced to call you a hypocrite, or at least make you come with me.”

“No, Master.” Anakin rolls his eyes. He turns away and begins to open containers after containers around him, waving a hand. “I was about to offer you a home solution.”

“Home solution, you say?” Obi-Wan hums, eyes on the containers he’s prying open in the same manner as Anakin.

“Yes, Master. You interested?” Anakin closes yet another container that has nothing suspicious. He can’t help the hopeful upward tilt of his voice.

“Well, certainly I—Oh,” Obi-Wan exclaims, crouching over a container at the other end.

Anakin doesn’t need to be called to come right over beside his Master. Sure enough, inside aren’t electronic parts, but small medical vials - doubtless the tainted spice. “ _There_ it is.”

“Well,” Obi-Wan says, stroking his chin. His eyes twinkle. “Shall we secure the bridge?”

—

It does seem almost too easy; then again, not all spice runners are of the clever sorts. Sometimes blessings are not traps - just blessings. The ship model is a common one that the both of them have learned about since they were junior Padawans. It’s a straight path from the cargo storage to the bridge, uninterrupted by sentients. There’s no Sith plots nor Separatist schemes; he and Obi-Wan fight off some security droids, take over control of the bridge, and that’s it. The ship is steered toward Coruscant, and they land at the top center for Republic law enforcement. Those involved in the operation at hand are apprehended, while the two Jedi take a shuttle back to the Temple.

The only complication is that Anakin can’t quite forget the way he and his Master were pressed up against each other in the cargo hold. Or how he was damn near stuffing his face into his Master’s groin. Or Obi-Wan’s expression when he said _I’m going to be sore tonight_.

Even if he’d wanted to, Obi-Wan, in an incredibly oblivious fashion, reminds him of it.

“If only all missions could go so smoothly,” his Master sighs, noticeably grimacing and giving a ridiculously suggestive groan as he rolls his shoulders, “this war would be over tomorrow.”

 _Does he seriously not realize how he sounds?_ “Good that it ended quick.” Anakin smiles, patting Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine what we’d do if we had to go stealthy. Our enemies would’ve heard your joints pop from a mile away.”

Obi-Wan huffs, his hands serenely before him, his sleeves touching in the image of a perfectly composed Jedi Master. “I’m hardly such an invalid. Not all of us are as flexible as you are, my young friend.”

It’s just a term of address, but somehow the idea of himself being thought of as _young_ and then exclusively _friend_ stings, especially when it’s both attributes put together. Anakin brushes it off with a shrug. He never really _had_ a chance, so why bother. 

“Still. Your back is sore, Master,” he points out, picking up where they left off on the ship. They’ve tended to each other before, in the aftermath of difficult missions (anything to keep them away from the Halls of Healing, really). There’s no way his Master doesn’t know what he means when he says, “I could help with that?”

Obi-Wan glances his way. “Are you sure?” He inquires, hesitation written in his voice, almost too blatantly so for the usually subtle and suave Obi-Wan Kenobi. “I’m certain you have far better things to do than tend to your old Master.”

“Obi-Wan, I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure,“ Anakin answers, laughing, lagging back behind a step so that he can take Obi-Wan by both shoulders and steer him into their quarters. _I wouldn’t trade this chance for an armada full of droids._ “Come on, High General. Tending to you is a national priority.”

“I hardly know about that,” Obi-Wan protests. Yet he gives in, removing his boots and outer robes as soon as the door closes behind them, and Anakin grins. “Your room or mine?”

“Yours,” Anakin blurts without thinking, and then tries to explain, “I’ll make sure you fall asleep this time, Master.” There’s no good reason to blush at that question, but good luck telling that to his traitorous body. At least he’s crouching down to pick off the straps on his boots, his face well hidden from view.

“You seem so sure of yourself,” Obi-Wan lightly says, ruffling his hair.

“Shouldn’t I be?” Anakin laughs, and calls, “I’ll be right back, Master,” before heading to his room to fetch the oil. It’s in the same place as the lube, which distracts him for a few seconds as he just kneels there staring at the bottle in a bout of wistful fantasies before slamming the drawer shut and standing up to get to his work.

He doesn’t regret choosing Obi-Wan’s room, anyway. It’s the picture of a perfect Jedi’s room - clean, crisp, and almost barren, but with a few touches of genuine warmth. There are wooden wind chimes by the window. A bottle of fine Nabooan wine in the closet. And on display is a fine tea set, delicate blue and gilded with silver, a gift from Anakin last Life Day. This place to him has been comfort and peace for upwards ten years: it’s dyed in Obi-Wan’s signature, and smells like him, and honestly Anakin misses the time when he could just crawl into his Master’s bed when he wanted to. 

Now that he has a legitimate excuse to, he climbs onto Obi-Wan’s bed, taking in a rather sharp breath to see Obi-Wan stretched out, stripped of his robes, all of his well-toned muscles on display under the dim bedtime lighting. 

“Turn over, Master. Your back is the problem, right?”

Obi-Wan glances up and offers him a heart-stopping smile. “Ah, right.” He rolls over, rests his cheek against the pillow, and his eyes slide shut. “You don’t have mechanical oil this time, do you?”

Anakin groans and laughs at the same time, rolling his eyes. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” he says good-naturedly, settling beside Obi-Wan as he uncaps the bottle. It smells sweet and tropical, like Nabooan mangoes; the fragrance travels the more he rubs his hands together to warm them.

Anakin keeps the glove on - the touch of leather is going to be smoother than his gilded fingertips - and begins to knead at Obi-Wan’s shoulders, from the top of his shoulders to the crook of his neck, back and forth. Obi-Wan tenses, and then, slowly, relaxes beneath his touch. Light glistens on the oil spread over warm skin. Anakin presses a spot between his shoulder blades, and his Master groans softly into the pillow.

It’s good that Obi-Wan is on his belly and his eyes are shut, because Anakin would never recover if Obi-Wan sees him immediately going bright red at the sound of his groan. He keeps his eyes down, focused on the task at hand - it’s always manual tasks that hold his mind in one place - and no matter how dry his mouth gets at the feeling of Obi-Wan melting like butter under his fingers, he knows what he’s doing.

“Good, Master?” he asks, absentmindedly, as he massages down Obi-Wan’s back, rubbing and pressing light circular patterns along the dip of his spine.

Obi-Wan gives a low, blissed out sigh, pale lashes fluttering with the movement below shut eyelids. It might be Anakin’s imagination, or maybe his Master is flushing for real - but it’s probably just the slight ticklishness of the smooth slide of oiled hands, or the warmth of the room, or… who knows. He makes another soft moan and bites his bottom lip, and Anakin thinks, _This is it, this is where I will lose control and bury myself under the Temple ground out of shame and never resurface again._

“Yes,” Obi-Wan rasps, “Very.”

Anakin lets out a low, strained laugh to hide the sharp breath he just sucked in. Does Obi-Wan have _any idea_ how damnably suggestive he sounds, or is he too proper-minded for that? It’s most likely the latter and Anakin’s face burns just from the question. He will never be able get Obi-Wan’s breathless _Yes_ out of his mind ever and he’s not even sure if he would want to.

His own back is starting to protest from his slightly tilted posture, so Anakin moves and - determined to demonstrate his entirely innocent motives, even just to himself - sits atop Obi-Wan’s legs. (Straddles, more like.) Their combined weight sinks into the mattress, and Obi-Wan’s breath catches, and Anakin’s breath straight up stops.

Alright, maybe he didn’t think this one through.

He has to go through with it anyway. So he leans forward and repeats the trajectory from the back of Obi-Wan’s neck to the small of his back just above his waistband, kneading his thumbs down in small circles on either side of the spine. He wishes he could move his hands lower, lower… But no, that’s not—He can’t. His Master is loosening, and that’s good. He’ll focus on that.

“Are you sure you didn’t miss your calling?” Obi-Wan breathes, voice low and sleepy.

“To be what, a healer?” Anakin huffs, pausing for a moment where he is, hands practically framing Obi-Wan’s waist. “ _You_ trained me,” he says with a breath of a laughter, and scoots a little forward to get to Obi-Wan’s shoulders again. This time his hands settle at either side of Obi-Wan’s neck, thumbs pressing down intermittently along the base of his skull. His Master already sounds half-asleep, so this should do it.

Obi-Wan hums, almost beneath his breath. Anakin knows just where to press, where to knead, and he could feel Obi-Wan being drawn further and further toward serenity. He is quite adorable when he’s about to fall asleep. He murmurs something that vaguely resembles a “Thank you” before sighing against the pillow, and finally drifting off.

Anakin can’t help smiling, entirely endeared. _Most important mission accomplished._ He slides off the bed, battling with the urge in his mind as he watches Obi-Wan and the tranquility of his expression, the slight, involuntary parting of his lips. So Anakin sits there, at his Master’s bedside, not minding in the slightest as he kneels in the dim lights. He waits and waits for Obi-Wan to be asleep enough for him to plausibly deny his actions later.

And when he is sure, when he is very sure, Anakin leans down and kisses Obi-Wan on the crown of his head.

“Goodnight, Master.”


	4. elsewhere as well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satine nods. “Of interest to me is the nature of your relationship with Obi-Wan.”

There isn’t a day when Satine isn’t grateful for the turn of history and the success that her movement has achieved. Mandalore today looks nothing like the desolate, demolished, desecrated Mandalore she grew up in. No more clan wars, no more daily conflict, no more bloodshed on the streets every morning and assassinations as common as desert winds. The cubic cities now thrive in their biodomes, while the populace learned and is still learning to marry the pacifist ideals that she has propagated with the age old Way of the Mandalorians.

About a decade ago, by chance, the then-Queen of Naboo helped her uncover a nefarious plot before it could hatch. Together, they exposed a scheme to gather together the exiled warrior clans into a congregation dubbed _Death Watch_ , that would some day overthrow her peaceful government. If she hadn’t seen the secret meeting with her own eyes, Satine would not have been able to fathom that it was concocted by a man of her own government, Governor Pre Viszla of Concordia.

Immediately after his arrest, she made the decision to pardon the exiled warrior clans. Her Parliament has since been passing bill after bill to perfect the social policies required to reintegrate these clans with the New Mandalorians. It is a slow process, but the sight of Mando’ad in full beskar armors purchasing bouquets from a small flower shop or having breakfast alongside bare-faced New Mandalorian citizens in a cozy eatery is truly to behold - and one that she feels profoundly privileged to be able to witness.

And now, some twenty years after the civil war, she gets to greet an old friend.

Obi-Wan was a soft-faced boy when he left Mandalore last time; in faded but fond memories she still remembers how his cheeks felt smooth beneath her palms when they leaned together and shared the sweetness of their lips, on cold nights hiding up in the mountains. The man who steps down from his ship is nothing like that boy. Greyed at the temples and full-bearded round the jaws is General Kenobi of the Grand Army of the Republic. Not only has Obi-Wan graduated from being a student, he has knighted a student of his own: Anakin Skywalker, now his fellow Jedi General, who follows him in quiet awe as they make their way through the Sundari Royal Palace. Satine has seen him before - difficult not to, what with how popular the Hero With No Fear is as a public persona, even in this neutral part of the galaxy. She can’t say she knows him, though, and she doesn’t pay his silent presence much mind. She has plenty of catching up to do with her old friend, who is certainly still talkative as before, only in a different manner. Obi-Wan has matured.

Mostly, anyway. 

“A few rogue clans do not represent the view of the whole system,” he argues - prone to debates as he ever is, - lowering his glass of wine. They’re lounging in the private royal dining room, the great floor-to-ceiling windows and wide balconies opening up to a panorama of Sundari bathed in sunset.

“Yes,” Satine says, arching an eyebrow. She leans back in her chair, swirling the wine around in her glass. “And I assume one Jedi’s bad behavior does not reflect on the entire Order.” 

Obi-Wan scoffs. “Satine, I thought you would be above false equivalence.”

“False equivalence? Excuse me, but accusations won’t help you win arguments,” she says, smiling briefly as she sets her glass on the table and leans forward. “The scales are roughly the same, especially to outsiders. Optics matter, you do realize.”

“Roughly the same, you say.” Obi-Wan shakes his head, and she’s sure he’s exaggerating his disapproval, because the twinkle in his eyes is youthful and unmistakable. “Why, I would be very careful with that line of thought if I were you.”

“Speak for yourself, my dear Obi-Wan.”

The seat beside her rustles a bit. Satine glances over, and she’s sure she caught a glimpse of Knight Skywalker staring blazingly at her just before he looks away. The Knight’s glass of wine is more than half-full; he has been sitting on his hands since they settle around the table, looking progressively more lost as her and Obi-Wan’s conversation moves from subject to subject, nostalgic or contemporary.

Obi-Wan’s comm chirps quietly, the light blinking. Anakin and Obi-Wan both turn to it with a raised brow in impressive synchronicity.

Obi-Wan frowns, picking up the comm to snooze it. He pauses for a moment as if to assess the situation, then smoothly finishes the remainder of his wine and rises to his feet. “I’m receiving an urgent call from the Council. Excuse me for taking my momentary leave.” He bows to Anakin, then her, and pauses on her especially. “Please endeavor not to forget where we were, Your Highness. I intend to continue when I return.” 

Satine tilts her head to him in turn, her eyes sparkling. “You intend to lose, you mean.” 

“And what a folly it would be, to believe a discussion has winners and losers.” A smile in turn, before Obi-Wan turns to go. 

Silence is left in his wake. Satine’s attention has been wholly on the Master the entire time, and in large part because the Knight simply did not chime in. As much as she dislikes the notion of forcibly extracting conversation from those who do not want to engage, it would seem rather… exclusionary, and certainly rude, not to make at least smalltalk with him while they are alone together. “What must it be like, I wonder,” she muses, turning her eyes to the young Knight, sharp and cooly evaluating, “to be apprentice to the great Master Kenobi.”

For how unassuming he has held himself thus far, Anakin Skywalker is not intimidated.

"It was good,” Anakin says, tersely. His voice is a rather lovely tenor, slightly tense, and he meets her eyes head on. “He's closer to me than a parent or a friend, and we stay that way."

Satine smiles. The _Back off_ is clear without words. “So I see.”

Silence stretches between them again. Satine sips her wine, casually observing Anakin as he shifts in his seat, a crease etched between his brows. Despite his apparent discomfort, his eyes never leave her: their gazes brush every time she glances at him. After a good, long moment, it occurs to her that while she believes she’s playing the part of a sympathetic, quiet companion, Anakin has taken it as a challenge to some sort of staring match. She is a diplomat by deed and duty, but diplomacy is not a language that this young Jedi Knight speaks, clearly. Yet by the time she parts her lips to remedy this glaring oversight, Anakin has already beaten her to it.

"I never knew that Obi-Wan was friends with the Duchess of Mandalore.” Anakin Skywalker sure has a particular way of enunciating the word _friends_ , his intonation dipping audibly, sullenly at that. “How did you two meet, if I may ask?"

“I was at great threat during the Mandalorian Civil War. Obi-Wan and his Master were assigned to protect me until the threat had passed. We spent a year together.” Her tone is almost wistful, a certain nostalgia about her as she picks up her wine glass again.

“Oh.” Anakin blinks. “So you’re also close.”

The look on his face briefly reminds Satine of a feather-fox kit that she came across one time while promenading in the suburban woodlands of Theed. It was an albino and a runt, no doubt left alone by its mother and littermates; and its crying wasn’t only sad, but also bore a stark awareness of abandonment. “Did he not tell you?”

“No.” It takes Anakin a solid ten seconds to remember to add, “Your Highness. He never told me about you.”

It would have been a barb to Satine once, but no longer. She has gotten stronger than that. “Well, I’m sure you realize how Obi-Wan feels regarding un-Jedi behavior,” she mildly says. “He strives so hard to create the image of a perfect Jedi, neglecting the man.”

Anakin’s jaws bunch up. "He sure doesn't seem to neglect you," he mutters under his breath, and were he anyone else Satine would have immediately fault him for discourtesy, speaking in such a way. But the feather-fox runt...

He’s a boy, and the boy’s fondness for his Master is clear as the light of a harvest moon. She sees how a man like Obi-Wan Kenobi could instill such a feeling in him. She also sees how a man like Obi-Wan Kenobi could crush him utterly without even knowing it, all while denying himself everything that might bring him too much joy.

Two decades ago, when she was but a young girl, she would often wonder how differently things would have gone, had she said the words and not let him go. She no longer does, but perhaps she would rather spare Anakin Skywalker the regret.

“Let us be frank,” Satine says. “I thought you would be pleased to know that he is capable of unprofessional bonds.”

“I…” Anakin doesn’t finish his sentence. He stares at his hands, and the silence is no longer that of a staring match, just a loss for words. Perhaps that was too direct, Satine reflects. There is a very strange balance to strike with Anakin Skywalker.

“You know, Knight Skywalker, I’ve heard plenty about you,” she begins again. “Senator Amidala seems to think quite highly of you.”

Anakin looks up at her, visibly perplexed. "She is a good friend of mine," he says, slowly, questioningly. "And of Obi-Wan's. We've all known each other for a long time."

Satine nods. “So she tells me. Of interest to me is the nature of your relationship with Obi-Wan.”

Anakin frowns, recoiling on the defensive again. "The nature of our relationship is that we're both Jedi generals, and he was once my Master. I don't think it'd be any interesting to you."

“On the contrary.” She offers a smile, still just as cool as ever. Her nails lightly tap against the glass, as she deigns to continue. “Speaking of interest, you may be interested to know that my relationship with Padmé is quite… unprofessional.”

Anakin's entire expression loosens in surprise, brows shot up and lips ajar. He stares at her with no pretense nor propriety. "I, er—Congratulations?"

Anakin is sweet, in a naive sort of way, the way Obi-Wan never was. He lacks Obi-Wan’s subtlety, that’s for certain. The clear absence of antagonism upon hearing about her liaison with his other close friend only solidifies it: that Knight Skywalker’s territorial reaction is unique to his Master Kenobi.

“What I mean to say is,” she clarifies. “I no longer hold interest in Obi-Wan. I can see quite clearly that his mind is elsewhere as well.”

The Knight’s ears turn pink. He gapes at her. "What do you mean his mind is else—"

A knock sounds at the door, and it slides open. "Ah, excuse me for that," Obi-Wan strides in merrily. "Care to fill me in on what I missed?"

Anakin just grabs his wine glass and takes a big sip. Satine smiles as Obi-Wan glances between her and his red-faced friend.

“We were just speaking of your affinity for riding large, dangerous beasts. Was it a varactyl again?” 

“I would hardly call it an affinity.” Obi-Wan huffs as he settles back in his seat, a droid coming around to refill his glass. He has this rather concerned look as he considers Anakin, and Satine is pleased to see that she isn’t wrong. _Now I may rest assured that my old friend Kenobi has consistently good tastes._

"Varactyls aren't exactly dangerous," Anakin pipes up, so quietly, setting down his empty glass.

"Clearly you haven't met a hungry one, then," Satine replies without missing a beat. "Although I must concede, some people are rather apt to tame them."

Obi-Wan’s gaze lingers on his former apprentice, then lands on her, not quite accusatory, but certainly questioning. After much deliberation, all he does is pick up his glass. “Perhaps some things are better left untamed.” 

Satine laughs at that. “You sound rather like your Master, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duskscribe said: “Satine sees Anakin and she’s like “Oh. He babey :)” and her claws go in”, and we had to lean into it.


	5. as his Master was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s Anakin, sweetly concerned as always. It just makes Obi-Wan’s heart ache all the more fiercely, a mingled wave of longing and desire he knows he’ll never consummate. _No. This is not about you, Kenobi._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit smut, featuring: first time, love confession, speeder sex, semi-public, top Anakin and bottom Obi-Wan.

It’s a tame place, all things considered.

Their disguise missions usually vacillate between polar opposites: either seedy bars or high-class gala dinners. Because the people who frequent those places are all thieves, anyway, the only difference being that the ones have been convicted and the others haven’t. This time, though, their investigation lands smack in the middle. The little pub is on the surface of Coruscant, right above the first Lower Level. It’s dimly lit with warm oranges and emerald green inside, the sort of lighting that makes you feel tipsy on water. The decorations are as avant-garde as the majority of patrons - strange, abstract holograms; looping animated pictures of what looks like the structure of atoms or the splitting of a cell. There’s singing in a corner by some Pantoran with a thrumming instruments, and the air is misty with smoke from a few joints here and there. Everything smells mildly like burnt grass.

The place is something of a curiosity. Privileged yet not, bohemian but with an oddly corporate flavor, it’s where artists and loners gather to complain of the structures of the galaxy while participating directly in such structures. Obi-Wan has no doubt that there are true visionaries here, earnest rebels, but his late Master had always warned him of those who wear a false skin. He and Anakin are searching for such an imitator tonight, where a sect of separatists have been meeting to discuss possible kidnapping plans of senators. There have been mentions of a Togruta being glimpsed at previous kidnappings, which are shaky witness accounts at best, but it’s the only lead they have.

Jedi robes would have been far too conspicuous and proper for the job. In order to blend in with this strange artistic crowd, they are dressed appropriately: their robes are longer and looser and more layered, their solid cloaks are switched out for a quilted thing that trails behind them as they go, and they forgo their trousers in favor of thick scrunchy socks that come up above their knees. An utterly strange getup, but it is comfortable, and they’re still as covered as ever as they navigate through the haze of tinted smoke.

“I get what you mean now,” Anakin says in a low voice, as they direct themselves towards the silhouette of a lone Togruta at the bar, “when you said it reminds you of _him_.”

Obi-Wan can’t help but feel a touch of fondness, just barely softening at the notion. Qui-Gon _would_ feel at home in such a place - he can almost imagine him with smoke curling from his lips and a serene smile on his face, as the susurrus of his voice underlays the gentle thrumming of the music.

“It is like him, isn’t it?” Obi-Wan murmurs back, selecting a seat at the end of the bar. He selects a drink for him and Anakin - a popular one here, green, and slightly glowing. It contains a mild hallucinogen, which he has previously instructed Anakin on how to purge from his system. It’s the _appearance_ that matters.

The bartender sets the two shot glasses on the counter in quiet _clinks_. It stings a little on the tongue, but after a moment it begins to taste sweet, just as Obi-Wan remembers. He detects the substance and neutralizes it before it enters his bloodstream. The music drifts from fragment to fragment, not really having a coherent melody to it, but it’s pleasant in the background. He scans around with the Force, his eyes carefully down and focused on his glass. It is rather hard to figure out whether there is foul intent around: the water is muddled with intrusive thoughts and nonsensical mind-babbling under the influence.

“Hey sweetie.”

The lilting alto voice almost throws him off-kilter. Obi-Wan turns to find a Togruta, dressed in muted dark tones, in stark contrast to the bright white and pink and gold of her lekku that reach down near mid-thigh - longer than Master Shaak’s, longer than most Togruta he has seen. The lines of her face are bold, but her eyes are playful, if the term of endearment doesn’t make her mood obvious enough.

And said term of endearment was addressed directly to Anakin.

“Ah... hi,” Anakin says with a returning smile. He rests his face on his fist, leaning against the counter.

She seems pleased. “Want me to buy you a drink?”

 _Should I engage?_ , Anakin’s question shoots through their bond.

It's of little surprise that Anakin attracts attention so soon. Perhaps it is unbecoming of such an undercover mission, but Anakin does have a tendency to stand out in a crowd, ever since he was a Padawan. And that is fine. Obi-Wan has anticipated this. Yet there's still an odd shred of reluctance within him, an odd feeling that persists even as he smiles, and pointedly glances away. 

_Well, our lead did say something about a Togruta. Best to look into it._ He downs his shot and raises his hand for another, his attention ostensibly elsewhere.

“Well, the night is young,” Anakin answers to the Togruta and turns fully towards her, his back to Obi-Wan.

“Oh,” she chuckles under her breath. “I’ll take that as a yes. What would you like, darling?”

She sure _is_ liberal with the pet names, especially for a stranger. But at least that means Anakin doesn’t have to disclose his name... and thus, she won’t be invited to disclose hers. Now that is suspicious.

“Anything you’ll give me.” He smiles broadly.

The Togruta laughs out loud now, putting a finger under his chin as she leans forward. “Bold one. You shouldn’t have given me _carte blanche_ , sweet. What if it’s more than you can bite, hm?”

Anakin shrugs. “Then I’ll swallow.”

She laughs again. “I like you,” she drawls, and grins, carnivorous canines flashing sharply. She orders something completely different - out of the corner of his eyes, Obi-Wan sees a bright magenta that looks like it’s burning inside the tall glass. “Try this. Let’s see how you hold up.”

Obi-Wan has to quell a wave of nausea, and it isn't from the alcohol. This woman is certainly laying it on thick - is there no room for subtlety, these days? And Anakin - since when has he learned to talk like _that_ , Obi-Wan's attention near wholly consumed with the notion of _swallowing_. It's a foolish thing to fixate on, but he can't seem to concentrate on anything else. Why does his nonsensical attraction have to turn up at the very worst times? 

The effort of purging the hallucinogen makes his concentration lapse. By the time he realizes that his discomfort is crinkling like wrinkles in their Force bond, it’s too late to hide it from Anakin. He slams his walls back up again, grimacing as he downs half of his drink in one go. Force, what sort of Jedi is he?

 _Careful_ , he cautions across their bond. _There've been rumors of poisoning._

Anakin mirrors back the warning. _You be careful, Master._

The Togruta, seemingly rather sharp-eyed, must have noticed some expression that Anakin was making, likely due to the sudden shift in their bond. Obi-Wan feels like an utter failure.

“What is it?” She croons to Anakin. “Too afraid to try?”

“Oh no, not at all,” Anakin says immediately, ever the expert at bravado.

Just then, a group of musicians or some such approaches Obi-Wan, joints in hand. Best not refuse the smalltalk and draw suspicion to himself for being a loner, he thinks, dipping his head with a jovial smile. His attention is still split, sharply aware of the sound of Anakin gulping down a large swig of whatever that magenta drink is. Even without looking, he can sense how close the Togruta is leaning towards Anakin, how her voice drawls in a way that calls to mind sparkling, audacious eyes.

“Like what you... swallowed, sweetheart?”

 _Remember to check the substance you just ingested_ , Obi-Wan notes, to which Anakin only gives a faintly annoyed whiff of agreement. Yes, truly… Anakin is a grown Knight, no longer a Padawan who needs to be supervised - what is he thinking?

“I do...” Anakin tells her, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but notice just how husky his voice is. For his part, he entertains the group around him, catching a common thread between their minds about the music in the background and making a joke on it. They all laughed, though Obi-Wan’s heart could not be further from the laughter. 

“...But,” Anakin continues, “this is not nearly enough to quench my thirst. Tell me, beauty, are you here alone?”

The Togruta laughs low and rumbling, while Obi-Wan resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. ”Don’t try to speak like that again; you’ll ruin my mood, darling.” _She’s right about one thing, at least,_ Obi-Wan thinks. “What no-good are you up to, asking such a thing, hm? Haven’t even finished your drink yet and you already wanted to bring me elsewhere?”

“No,” Anakin says, his voice so on the verge of panic to Obi-Wan’s ears that the anxiety creeps onto him as well. And then his former Padawan comes to the inevitable conclusion. “Maybe I wanted you to bring me elsewhere.”

_Anakin, I would warn against separation._

_Don’t worry, Master. I’ve got this._

“Ah.” The Togruta utters with a sharp-toothed smile in her voice. “I see. What a sweet boy you are.”

Obi-Wan glances over - entirely by accident, he must insist - and catches a glimpse of her knuckles gliding from Anakin’s cheekbone to his jaw. Anakin very clearly shivers. Obi-Wan wonders if she’s slightly high, or if this is just her personality.

“...I have friends here,” she answers. “Unfortunately.”

As reluctant as Obi-Wan is to admit, something in the Force tells him that this might be it. Anakin seems to be much more eager to accept that possibility. He takes another long sip of that brightly colored drink. “So did you not plan on sharing me with them, or?”

In all of his years being a Jedi Master, this is one of the few occasions where Obi-Wan has to resort to the Force in order to keep his own spit from interrupting his windpipe.

The Togruta has her hand in Anakin’s hair now, petting, so maddeningly _casual_. “Sweetheart, do you want me to?”

 _Master? This looks like a lead_ , Anakin inquires.

This is part of the plan, Obi-Wan assures himself. All part of the plan. He smiles as others approach him, though it’s difficult to pay much mind when most of his attention is on his apprentice. Logically, he knows what should be done - so why is it so difficult to cede to the desires of such a suspicious party? 

_Take care, Anakin. I’ll be listening in, and I’ll be here if you need me._

_Right. I’ll let you know, Master._ Anakin hums. “Only if it doesn’t hurt.”

The Togruta just smiles, her hand bunching in the fabric at the back of his neck as if she means to grab his scruff. “I can’t promise that,” she purrs. “Only that it will be a delightful sting.” She leads him away to a back room, her movements slow, the swinging of her lekku almost hypnotic.

Obi-Wan continues to smile at his own interested parties, gesturing to a circle of smokers off in the corner as he rises to his feet, and they all head there to join the group. He isn’t as fond of the taste as his Master was, but this is a far better way to keep his mouth occupied and his mind focused on Anakin. 

Anakin opens his mind to him. Images, sounds, sensations - they’re shared to Obi-Wan in a stream of perception, lagging for a few seconds at times and slightly finicky, like an analog transmission between machines of slightly different builts. But they make do, and Obi-Wan can hear the echo of what Anakin hears in his own head. Not all of Anakin’s thoughts are available to him, though. Anakin has managed to perfect a certain technique of layered shields, something he ought to be proud of. 

“Something bothering you, darling?” The Togruta tugs a little harder at the back of Anakin’s hooded cloak.

“No.” Anakin brushes it off, looking up at her with a faint smile. From this angle, Obi-Wan can see how tall the Togruta is, towering over Anakin, and how admittedly attractive she is. It could be Anakin’s subjective lenses that affect the image - he doesn’t want to know. “Just thought I heard something strange.”

The backroom is even dimmer than the main lounge of the pub, the air even mistier, still smelling of burnt grass but laced with a soft, sweet musk. The light makes everything look marbled between mossy green and dark turquoise. A chorus of murmured greetings lazily rise from all corners. There are four people in the room - another Togruta, two Iktotchi, and a human.

“Oi, Reffene,” a rough voice greets from the corner. It’s the human. “Thought you’d never be back. We were just talking ‘bout how R’wen—Who’ve you got there?”

So that’s her name. Anakin wonders if it’s her real name, and Obi-Wan shares it with him. Reffene rolls her eyes, visibly annoyed that she’s been spoken over before she could explain. Or keep them from disclosing her name, or their name, or anyone’s name for that matter.

But what tugs at Obi-Wan the most is the name that the other voice just mentioned. R’wen is a rare surname, and also born by a junior minister of Pantora who is not even a member of the Senate. It is not a name on the list of politicians at risk of being targeted, but hearing it here is disquieting nonetheless, and deeply suspect.

Anakin tugs at their bond, and Obi-Wan sends back his acknowledgement. _I know. Carry on. We need more evidence._

“Sorry, sweetheart, my friends can be a brute sometimes.” Reffene says pointedly, ostensibly to him, but probably more directed at the human. “I brought back a guest.”

“Nice to meet you.” Anakin nods, smiling. Maybe Anakin is right: the best way to get about this is just to play along until he feels sure enough to subdue them. “Mind if I take a seat?” And Anakin promptly takes the nearest by seat on a bed, next to the other Togruta - a male Togruta, he recognizes up close.

“Don’t mind at all,” the man says, leaning close, taking a long, unsubtle whiff. “Mm, Reff, how do you keep finding ‘em?”

“Luck,” Reffene says, looking pleased. The other occupants of the room seem more interested now, after the male Togruta’s comment. They swarm closer, and suddenly the strange, smoky group encircles Anakin, almost reverently, all hands and arms around him.

Obi-Wan winces. He rather distractedly takes the joint as it’s passed around the circle, but no one seems to mind his slowness, given that everyone is moving as if caught in a haze. He takes a deep draw - which is fortunate, as it relaxes him enough to keep him from worrying when he sees Anakin so surrounded.

“And charm, I’d say,” Anakin adds, to which Reffene smiles and puts a hand around his waist. It feels good to Anakin, and it’s all laid bare in the Force bond. A shudder runs up Obi-Wan’s spine. “So this is what you mean, ‘more than I can bite’, huh?”

Even Reffene doesn’t deign to answer. The male Togruta at Anakin’s side leans close again, this time bunching up the fabric of his cloak. “Bet you smell better with this off.”

Obi-Wan is truly rather ready to get his former Padawan out of here.

“Hold on,” Anakin says, a little too sharp, and he placates them with a smile that Obi-Wan can _feel_ in their bond. “Right now? Not even gonna talk a little first?”

_Anakin, it might be time to apprehend them._

_You said we need more evidence, Master,_ Anakin turns his words back against him. Obi-Wan likes to think that his dread is for Anakin’s safety, something utterly absurd considering that they are Jedi and the people around them are mostly soft-handed, middle-class Coruscanti who have been consuming various types of substances in steady doses for hours on end. But truly, the question that nags at the back of his mind is: Is Anakin somehow _enjoying_ this… attention?

He wouldn’t fault Anakin if he did. He would be in no place to. He felt ashamed that he even had to consider it.

“Darling, weren’t you so impatient before?” Reffene tugs Anakin closer by the waist.

“I am, but...” Anakin pauses. One of the Iktotchi - the one who looks the least sober of the four - has knelt before him. Obi-Wan can see the way the Iktotchi, on his knees, looks at Anakin. He wonders if Anakin sees the same. “I heard you say you were talking about someone. I, uh, I like gossip.”

“Hmm.” The human, the one who, so far, has kept the most distance from him, narrows their eyes. “You know, little one… You’re more nosy than I thought.”

“Really?” Anakin gives a strained laughter. There’s a sharp spark in the Force and Obi-Wan can feel just how thinly close Anakin is to invading their mind out of sheer anxiety. 

“Yeah,” says the human. “I’m thinking you look a little familiar.”

 _Oh, kriff._

Obi-Wan bolts to his feet before Anakin could even verbalize, _Obi-Wan, we’ve got our suspects._ The circle doesn’t even seem to notice his absence. He rushes through the crowd, drawing huffs and looks as he dashes into the back room.

The door slams open, and chaos breaks out.

Anakin immediately stands up, wrenching himself out of all of their grips. He draws handcuffs out from under his layered robes and restrains the male Togruta and the Iktotchi at his feet, while Obi-Wan lunges for the human who has pulled out their blaster. He knocks the weapon out of the human’s grip with the Force, incapacitating them immediately after. Fortunately, it seems most of the group is drunk or high or both, most of their reaction times not even close to matching two Jedi in their prime. Obi-Wan remains close to Anakin’s side as they dispatch one after another without even needing to brandish their sabers once.

Reffene, seemingly the most sober one out of the group, dashes out the door. “Stay here and guard them,” Obi-Wan calls to Anakin, gesturing at the tied-up four, before chasing after her.

She doesn’t even look at him as she runs, her lekku swaying alongside her scarves. She is clever, slinking amidst the crowd and towards the door in a way that makes it hard for Obi-Wan to leap towards her without bowling a few people over. She cannot outrun a Jedi, though - and certainly not a Jedi who has been quite unbecomingly _miffed_ with her for the entire evening. Obi-Wan reaches into the Force and directs her towards a blocked alley that she unknowingly follows into. With a well-timed jump, he leaps onto the wall and lands before her just when she turns around, effectively cornering her in the dead end.

“ _Sweetie_ ,” he mimics the way she said it to Anakin earlier, dripping with sarcasm on his end, holding up the handcuffs. “You’re coming with me.”

They round up the five suspects. Obi-Wan comes back entirely stoic-faced, not even deigning to offer the arrested a lilting joke, even as Anakin smiles at him. They promptly herd the suspects out of the pub and leave them in the hands of senate securities and coruscant law enforcement stationed a few blocks away. Then they walk back to their own speeder, and the night falls quiet again.

"At least that was quick," his one-time Padawan says, laughing a little, clearly trying to make conversation.

“True,” he says, too quiet, as he slides into the passenger seat. The one-word answer is so very unlike him; he can’t bring himself to do better. His eyes drift to the window, far too caught up in his own thoughts. Anakin’s gaze lands on him warmly, weightily, like a physical thing. He rams his shields shut, secure, impenetrable.

They fasten their seatbelts. Anakin starts the engine. He still smells halfway like alcohol and perfume. The silence persists, and Anakin’s unease begins to seep through. Obi-Wan sighs, inwardly guilty for acting this way, but for some reason, he can’t gather the energy to put up a front. Anakin was never in any real danger. He could’ve drawn his saber and taken control of the situation at any moment. And yet.

The speeder lifts into the air and enters traffic. The multicolored lights of Coruscanti nightlife stream over them, glittering storefronts and flashing billboards, hover-lamps and brightly-lit signs. Everything glides by in a motion blur. Obi-Wan keeps his eyes firmly outside the window, looking the other way from his old apprentice.

"...And easier than I thought,” Anakin tries again, picking up the aborted conversation. “I thought we'd have to search for a night or two, but she just dropped herself right into our lap, huh?"

 _Right into our lap_ , Anakin says. Obi-Wan’s expression shutters. Yes, he supposes it had rather ended up that way.

“So to speak,” he distantly answers, not hearing his own voice. Anakin doesn’t deserve such a cold reception, he knows, but he can’t make himself sound more... focused.

“Master?” Anakin seems caught between annoyed and worried. "Master? Are you... alright? You're quiet." He lets out a small laugh, seemingly still hoping to lighten the mood.

Ah. Obi-Wan feels a touch bad that Anakin’s noticed, but he’s unsure what he can really do to fix it - he’s never liked pretending around Anakin. He’s unsure what he can say, unsure what he is feeling, himself. “Fine,” he assures, finally managing to glance Anakin’s way and give him a halfhearted smile. “Don’t worry about me.”

A frown sets over Anakin’s brows. "You're not fine," he declares and, to Obi-Wan’s dismay, presses a series of buttons on the control board. The speeder swerves and slows to a halt, pulling up at the side of a park. In the light of the hover-lamp above them, Anakin glimmers silver at the edges like a spirit of old, solemn and beautiful and rightfully unreachable. He deserves to be untainted. He is too pure, too trusting, too open-hearted for his own good. Obi-Wan is absolutely loath to hurt him, but more than anything, he would never be able to forgive himself if he ends up _corrupting_ him.

"Are you mad at me?” Anakin turns to him fully, so earnest and serious that Obi-Wan’s chest squeezes. “Tell me if you are, Master."

“No,” Obi-Wan quickly answers, desperately genuine. He finally glances over Anakin’s way, regret and repentance swirling up painfully in his chest as he studies him. “Apologies, Padawan mine. The problem is my own.”

"Then what's your problem?" Anakin asks, completely confused and still frowning deeply. "Did somebody do something to you?"

There’s Anakin, sweetly concerned as always. It just makes Obi-Wan’s heart ache all the more fiercely, a mingled wave of longing and desire he knows he’ll never consummate. _No. This is not about you, Kenobi._ The guilt keeps clouding up within him, alongside the dread. Anakin is not so easily fooled, not when it comes to other’s emotions, and Obi-Wan knows intimately just how perceptive his former apprentice is.

“Nothing to me,” he says, trying for a more reassuring look. “I’m fine. Let’s just continue on to the Temple.”

"No," Anakin grits, voice rising. He’s leaning forward, and Obi-Wan, instinctively, backs away. "I don't understand, Obi-Wan. You say it's not because of me, but I feel like it is. You're upset, and you won't tell me why—"

“It’s not your fault, Anakin, stop assuming,” Obi-Wan cuts in, perhaps a little more heated than he means. Because it’s the truth, and he can’t bear letting Anakin think otherwise. It’s all his own fault, for being far too inadequate to dissuade himself from his attraction and dissolve his overgrown emotional ties. He’s too weak to purge himself of his indecent thoughts about _his own former Padawan_ , Force have mercy. He feels so deeply unworthy that he cannot even look Anakin in the eye.

“...You did well tonight, Anakin. Very well.”

“Don’t try to placate me.” Anakin’s voice is brewing low with the beginning of anger. “I’m not a child anymore, Obi-Wan.”

“I mean it,” Obi-Wan says, his voice thinly pleading. “I’m proud of your success, Anakin. Tonight, and always. You… You know that.”

Anakin’s gaze scorches his skin. A button is pressed, and their seatbelts both slide apart with a whizzing snap in the air. Obi-Wan’s hand slowly traces back, towards the handle of the door. He doesn’t much like the notion of fleeing like a frightened rabbit in front of the man he cares for the most, but the situation isn’t presenting him with many options. Anakin is a bright, blindingly beautiful light in the Force, a dedicated man, a force of bravery and passion and everything wonderful of the Order, a Jedi surely meant to be the best of them all, prophecy or not. He would rather exit from the vehicle and exit out of Anakin’s life, than letting his petty desires to weigh Anakin down.

"Then why are you sad, Master?" Anakin leans forward, boxing him in against the speeder door. His scent and his warmth engulfs Obi-Wan whole. "I just want to help. You know I'll do anything for you."

Obi-Wan wants to open the door. He wants to escape the speeder, and pretend that he hadn’t been so damn obvious. He’s not ready for this conversation to happen, though he has been fearing it for a long, long time. His heart throbs painfully in his chest. Must he be a coward now? He would be a coward either way.

“I know.” Obi-Wan bows his head even lower, his hands wringing before them. “...I know. But what I want, I could never ask of you.”

"That's nonsense," Anakin immediately declares, setting his flesh hand over Obi-Wan's despite the tension. "There's nothing you couldn't ask of me. I mean it. I'll listen, I'll... I don't want you to be sad, Obi-Wan."

And oh, if that doesn’t make Obi-Wan feel so much worse. He wishes he were the flawless Jedi Anakin seems to see him as. He wishes he was the adequate Jedi he’s always hoped to be. Slowly, he glances up at Anakin, willing the line of his lips not to quiver. Anakin’s gaze is intense, unrelenting, gripping him like a vise. 

Obi-Wan sighs deeply. "What happened tonight - you being put into a position of, ah, seduction - has… affected me, in a more personal way than it should have. It is not your doing, by any means. I am entirely to blame."

Anakin is still waiting.

“...I,” Obi-Wan manages, before trying for a smile. It doesn’t feel quite right. “I’ve been remiss in my duties as a Jedi, Anakin. I’ve...”

Anakin frowns, impatient. “You’ve?”

And that is the extent of Obi-Wan’s bravery. He can no longer hold Anakin’s gaze. His eyes drop; his breaths stop.

“I’ve coveted you.”

The sound of singing insects from afar is the only thing that dilutes their silence.

For a long while, Anakin only fixes him with this silent, all-consuming stare that Obi-Wan doesn’t even dare to meet. More than one Obi-Wan has considered saying something, but he owes Anakin more than that, now that the Loth-cat is out of the bag. He owes it to Anakin to stay here and apologize, and swear to never let his sentimentality disrupt Anakin’s career again. He is too tongue-tied to say any of that now. They are at a standstill.

When Anakin finally speaks, it is in a slow, stunned manner. “Master, you…” he says and leaves it there, and by Force does it not help matters any. This is what Obi-Wan has feared the most. Has he ruined everything with only three words? They have always been side by side, fighting together, patching each other up, patting each other’s shoulders for every battle won, holding each other fast for every man lost. Did he just rob them both of a friend?

Something overflows on the other side of their Force bond - what a telling thing that he still selfishly preserves it there, all these years after Anakin’s graduation, isn’t it? - that he cannot bring himself to perceive. He doesn’t know what is worse: Anakin in pain because of him, or Anakin disgusted at him.

Obi-Wan’s hand tightens on the door’s handle. It is past time he leaves.

But then Anakin’s hand brushes up his cheek.

His flesh hand, his unhurt hand, his non-dominant hand; tentative at first, and then bold. His fingers glide along the side of Obi-Wan’s face, from temple to jaw, before tilting his chin up, not forcefully, but firm in a way that tells him it’s not a suggestion, it’s an order. And he obeys.

He looks up, all confusion, unable to guess Anakin’s intention. This isn’t a mere concession to him, is it? It would crush him if it were. For once he cannot decipher Anakin’s expression. It’s tender yet tumultous, it’s concerned and consuming all at once. There is no disgust there, only a fierce single-mindedness as their eyes meet. He nearly resists, but Anakin’s eyes practically beg him to stay. Anakin is coming closer, and closer, and he is...

He is…

Obi-Wan’s mind blanks out when their lips meet. Anakin is kissing him. Anakin is leaning across the front seats, his hand cradling his face so delicately. When had someone last touched him with such care? The kiss is soft and shallow, just lips pillowing against lips, sweet and warm and tasting of alcohol.

Obi-Wan tenses up. He wants to enjoy it, he does, but he can’t stop the way his chest heaves in a quiet sob as they break off. It’s all so mortifyingly _overwhelming_ , his breath shuddering as he presses his face in the crook of Anakin’s neck. Words fail him the way they never do, as his mental walls fling open almost against his will. Years and years of repressed feelings flood their bond: sweet desire, shame, guilt, relief, but above all is the utter, utter love that he has for Anakin. For his former Padawn. For his now Jedi partner. For his fellow General. For his light.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, hands balling near desperately in Anakin’s shirt. “I only...” 

"No, no," Anakin hushes, in awe, wrapping his arms around him and all of his being. He pets the back of Obi-Wan's head, nosing into his hair, peppering kiss after kiss into Obi-Wan’s hair. His heart beats so fast it's humming against Obi-Wan’s chest, and then it’s Anakin’s turn to open his mind back.

It seems to surpass Obi-Wan’s secret in quantity, all of Anakin’s years of stolen glances and blushing silences and even quiet tears behind doors. Jealousy prowls and preys around Anakin’s heart like a vicious beast, and deep at the core Anakin is a man who wants, and he wants and he _wants_ so much that he frightens himself.

"I've loved you for so long, Obi-Wan," Anakin whispers, squeezing Obi-Wan’s form to his chest, still reeling from the revelation. They tuck against each other’s cuts and valleys in a perfect fit, like they're meant to be. "Longer than I can remember. I love you so much."

“Anakin, I…” Obi-Wan regretfully can’t stop a few tears from escaping. His mind is a binary-only transmitter that has been fed complex messages beyond comprehension. It is so much to take in in one go. Anakin desires him. Anakin wants him just because he wants him, has wanted him before Obi-Wan was ever aware. For all that Obi-Wan feared he would influence Anakin wrongly, Anakin was already ahead of him. The more Obi-Wan kept away from him, the more Anakin’s fire simmered.

Anakin draws back slightly, smiling so, so big. “Oh hey now,” he whispers, thumb skimming over Obi-Wan’s cheek as he coaxes Obi-Wan’s face up again. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It’s alright.” He presses his lips to Obi-Wan's forehead, to his tear-matted lashes, and trails them down Obi-Wan's nose bridge, so gentle it might break him. "I love you the most.”

It’s all clear as day. Anakin loves him so brightly, so joyfully, and the timid beginning of a smile grows across Obi-Wan’s lips.

"Can I kiss you, Master?" Anakin whispers like it’s a secret, planting a light kiss on the tip of his nose. "Will you return it this time?"

“Please,” Obi-Wan breathes, not waiting for Anakin to move anymore. His fingers curl in Anakin’s lovely long hair - how he has longed to do so - and tangle there, bringing him close, sinking into the warmth of his all. His lips part and he slides his tongue in, unabashedly tasting his fill as Anakin hums and tilts his head and makes way. His eyes fall shut from the feeling of tongue against tongue, softer than rainbowsilk. Anakin moans into his mouth, arms tight around him as he tilts Obi-Wan back and back until he’s pressed into the seat. He’s unable to mind terribly much. Anakin is blazingly warm against him, a few drops of sweat already beginning to bead under Obi-Wan’s layers and layers of clothing. 

His eyes are half-mast and positively dazed when they have to part. Anakin remains close enough that their breaths are still shared.

“I thought I could never tell you,” he says, kissing the corner of Obi-Wan’s lips, “how beautiful you are. How many times I’ve felt like dying when you smile at me.” He mouths at Obi-Wan’s jaw, and kisses down his neck.

His breath hitches with Anakin’s wandering mouth, Obi-Wan tilting his head back to allow him more room. “You have me now,” he breathes, every notion of the Order and the Code promptly fleeing his mind. “All of me.”

Anakin’s breath stutters in turn, and for a fraction of a second Obi-Wan’s doubts come crawling back - is it too much, is it too bold, is it so improper and garish that he has scared Anakin away? But all Anakin does is trap him there with his body flush against Obi-Wan’s own, and hush him with a nip to his neck, one that has Obi-Wan sighing out so very unlike a Master of his station. His indecency only spirals when Anakin’s flesh hand slips under the long robes and pushes up his bare thigh. He lets out a near-whine.

“All of you, Master?” Anakin murmurs huskily, parting the many layers of cloak and ruffles, tongue laving against the tip of a clavicle. “All of you, like this?”

And what a daunting notion this is. Obi-Wan doesn’t indulge often - he rarely feels the biological urge to that his own Master had, when Qui-Gon had assured him that fulfilling certain needs with Jedi of similar rank was wholly normal. To have Anakin pressed so close, the callouses of his hand scraping against skin in a way that has his nerves lighting up like fireworks... He can’t want for anything else.

“Everything,” Obi-Wan breathlessly replies, tugging Anakin back just enough to bring him in for another kiss. Anakin licks into his mouth brazenly, cupping his cock through his underthings all while sucking on his bottom lip. Where has his innocent Padawan learned to do all of this? Obi-Wan doesn’t have the time to wonder before Anakin’s capable hand works hot arousal into his stomach. He rocks his hips up, taking in a sharp breath.

“Oh, look at you,” Anakin breathes, smiling. He peels off Obi-Wan’s outer layers, letting them pool and bunch up like a blanket under him, and settles back. He fishes packets of bacta out of his pocket (Obi-Wan will later wonder of the forethought, when he has the mind to do so), shrugs off his cloak and undresses himself the rest of the way. His body is miles of honeyed, sunkissed, moonlit skin; he’s made of scars and stars and they are all rasping against Obi-Wan’s being. He parts the ends of Obi-Wan’s robes and leans down to kiss his thigh. “Beautiful everywhere.”

The Knight moves to his hip, then his navel, up and and up between his ribs while he hikes the undermost layer up. Obi-Wan flushes under the ministrations; all he can think to do is raise him arms to help Anakin along, to get the shift over his head. Anakin’s hands are so careful on him, nothing like the roaring furnace in his heart that Obi-Wan has been given a full view of. It’s as if Anakin has taught himself how to reign that fire in, and the only traces of it left is the utter heat in his eyes. Obi-Wan drapes his arm around Anakin’s neck, his legs spreading so Anakin can fit neatly between them. 

Anakin smiles down, giving him a swift, sweet kiss on the lips. “You’re trembling, Master,” he whispers. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“So are you,” Obi-Wan murmurs against his mouth, a hint of warmth in his voice as he arches closer. “Please, don’t stop now.”

“As you wish.” Anakin kisses him again, and draws back slowly, lips lingering on his chin, his throat, his collarbone. He pauses there, teeth grazing skin before he sucks on it in earnest - a spot low enough to be covered by robes. How Obi-Wan adores the notion of seeing it later, a physical reminder of just how Anakin cares for him, just as he cares for Anakin.

His hands brush up Obi-Wan’s thighs and over his hips, gloved hand framing his waist while the pad of his flesh thumb rubs gentle circles around a nipple. He rocks lightly against Obi-Wan, his cock sliding hotly against bare skin. Obi-Wan breathes in sharply, dragging Anakin in closer, needing to feel the hard line of his cock against his own. Fire twists up in his guts; Anakin’s desires seem to deepen his own.

“Please,” he rasps, his hands framing Anakin’s face to tilt his head up. “I’d like you to take me.” A pause, before he tacks on, “if that’s alright.”

Anakin licks his swollen lips, breath growing ragged. “I want nothing more.”

He turns to kiss Obi-Wan’s palm before he recedes and kneel between his legs. He tears open a bacta packet, then dips down. Anakin has appeared in Obi-Wan’s fantasies, as much as he regrets to admit it, with capable hands and a playful glittering in his eyes, but Obi-Wan never would have anticipated it going like this: on his back in a speeder, along some darkened park where anyone could see. He doesn’t complain in the slightest, however. He doesn’t even have the mind to.

Warm kisses bloom up the inside of Obi-Wan’s thighs, drawing sighs and groans from his throat unbidden. Anakin begins to suck at the sensitive skin, determined to leave as many bright bruises as he could, it seems. His tongue laves over the bright bruise there, and Obi-Wan lets out a high, strained noise when a warm, bacta-slicked finger slides within, not quite past the second knuckle.

Anakin’s smile is positively besotted. “All good, Master?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan murmurs, reaching for Anakin’s gloved hand. He presses a kiss to the leather at the inside of his wrist. Anakin’s eyes widen from the gesture, breath skipping, and isn’t it the most gratifying reaction that Obi-Wan has ever been met with. His gloved hand slides over to cradle Obi-Wan’s cheek, as his finger presses in slowly inside him.

Anakin has lovely long fingers, Obi-Wan’s breath leaving him in a quiet, and wholly embarrassing, whine when he curls it up, the sensation so long lost it feels novel. It is novel perhaps, in a way - he has never been on the receiving end of such sweet care, after such a long time depriving himself of it.

Anakin perhaps mistakes his sound for discomfort or some such. He leans down and kisses him on the lips, on the eyelids, and smiles. “Relax, Master.” His finger curl up again, slowly, prodding, searching, maddening. “It’ll feel good in a bit, I promise.”

“Little need to reassure me,” Obi-Wan says, dryly - or rather, he tries to sound so unaffected. It’s hard to manage as he rocks up against him, hips rolling in a silent plea for more, and Anakin certainly catches up on it, judging by his grin.

“Oh, I think there is a need,” he says, thrusting his finger up into that same spot again, punching an audible moan out of Obi-Wan’s chest.

Anakin drags himself down along Obi-Wan’s body like tides, leaving a trail of kisses and light bruises in his wake. He stops when he’s settled between Obi-Wan’s thighs, giving a kitten lick at the base of his cock. Any notion of propriety quickly leaves his mind at the very sight of Anakin’s lips ghosting over him. Obi-Wan stares, unable to tear his eyes away as those beautiful lips part. Anakin takes his cock into his mouth before sliding in another finger deep.

“A-Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s head drops back, his fingers tangling in Anakin’s hair. His breath leaves him in a drawn-out moan.

Anakin moans around his cock, suckling on it lightly, and pulls back to tongue the slit and kiss the crown and lick down the shaft. His fingers pump in and out in a steady rhythm, crooking his fingers every once in a while, and it is all Obi-Wan could do not to straight up sob. When he sees fit to slide another in, he grips Obi-Wan’s hip with his gloved hand, loosens his jaw and takes Obi-Wan’s cock again, so much deeper this time. He makes a noise close to gagging, and Obi-Wan wants to assure Anakin that he doesn’t need to take him so deep, that he would be satisfied with anything Anakin could give him. He doesn’t have time to think of it then, however, lost as Anakin drives his fingers up and swallows down more. 

Obi-Wan gasps, struggling not to arch up. “Please—oh Force, I’m ready.” He jolts, and moans, and tugs at Anakin’s hair, trembling all over. “ _Anakin._ ”

“Where’s my patient Master?” Anakin pulls off, licking his lips, breathless even in the tease. He kisses Obi-Wan’s thigh as he draws his fingers out and reaches for the other packet of bacta to slick himself up. Obi-Wan groans, hot-faced, opening his mouth only for Anakin to laughingly kiss the comeback from his lips.

“You tease,” Obi-Wan mutters.

“You’re so sweet,” says Anakin, entirely in earnest as he lines them up and rolls his hips in. No more waiting, no more preamble. It immediately drives the breath from Obi-Wan’s lungs. Anakin moans out loud, pushing in till he’s fully sheathed. Obi-Wan arches beneath him, stars in his eyes, needing a moment to adjust to the feeling. It _has_ been a long time.

“That, ah—so good...” Anakin breathes. 

“More,” Obi-Wan manages, hand scrabbling up Anakin’s arm for support - only for Anakin to lace his fingers into it, pressing his hand down into the seat. Anakin whines himself, gripping bruises into his thigh as he grinds up inside Obi-Wan and makes him sob. Anakin fills him up so hot and tight and perfect that he can’t help but clench, earning a whine from Anakin.

“Tell me, ah, what you want, Master,” he says, as he pulls back nearly all the way and thrusts back in, steady and firm. The slide takes Obi-Wan’s breath away. “Anything,” he moans, thrusting again, sweat rolling down his face. “I’ll do anything.”

Obi-Wan squeezes his hand tight, finally forcing his eyes open. Anakin’s face is half lit by hover-lamps beyond, a beautiful play of light and darkness, his eyes glittering like gems. Obi-Wan soaks in the sight, committing every last bit of it to memory, shamelessly locking it away just for him, him, him.

“Just—” Obi-Wan rocks back against him. “Don’t stop.”

Their breaths are so ragged they splinter into gasps and broken moans. Anakin’s free hand - his flesh hand - comes down to wrap around Obi-Wan’s cock. His strokes don’t stay leisurely for long as he drives into Obi-Wan faster and faster. “I could look at you like this all day, Master,” he whispers, groaning. “Flushed and open and beautiful. Let me hear you more”—he punctuates this with a hard thrust.

Anakin has always had an over-abundance of honesty, and it’s in full force now as he speaks, murmuring such sweet, beautiful things. Desire coils tighter and tighter in Obi-Wan, while Anakin takes him just how he likes. There will be time later for gentle caresses and a slow exploration - now, Obi-Wan doesn’t even try to hold himself back. He does what Anakin bids him, calling his name, calling to him above, hazy-eyed as he looks upon Anakin’s shadowed countenance, upon the love that shines in his eyes. 

“Please.” The Negotiator’s repertoire has been reduced to this singular word. “ _Please_ , Anakin….”

“That’s it, Master. That’s right.” Anakin pants. “You feel so good, so good. Let go, Obi-Wan. For me.”

His hand wants to catch up with Anakin’s strokes on him, but his rhythm is messy and his body is bridging up, quivering as Anakin takes him apart in the most loving way. The fabric of his being unweaves as pleasure pulses through his core, tingling and tinkling up his veins. He’s going to unravel into nothing but thousands of strands of light, like the little bursts that he’s seeing before his eyes, incandescent and impossible to bear any longer. He breathes a sharp, unabashed moan as he spills across his chest, clenching tight around Anakin’s cock.

“ _Aah—_ " Anakin snaps his hips, trembling and senseless as he chases his edge. Anakin takes him until Obi-Wan is trembling from the oversensitivity of it all. He slams into Obi-Wan before spending deep inside with a keening moan, body going taut. He is all that Obi-Wan can feel, he and his brilliant, blinding climax in the Force, and glimpses of himself seen through Anakin’s eyes flash through his mind: _Obi-Wan, Master, my dearest, hand in my hand, splayed out and panting and so very perfect before my eyes, I love you, I love you._

Slowly, slowly, Obi-Wan begins to relax, every muscle loosening as he just takes the time to watch Anakin above him, his long, dark lashes catching the light. Anakin is panting, shuddering, eyes still shut and body is still alight, not yet coming down from the crest. He reaches up, fingertips brushing against his cheek, skimming down to the line of his jaw. “You’re beautiful.”

Anakin's eyes slide open, and he slowly draws back with a sigh and smiles. Obi-Wan grunts quietly; Anakin leans down to nose at his cheek. " _You_ are," he quips, breathless and childish and chuckling, and Obi-Wan can’t help giving a breathy laugh in return.

There's not nearly enough space for them to cuddle up against each other on these cramped seats, but that doesn't stop Anakin from staying as close as possible. “Come on, Master.” He sits up and opens his arms, an invitation so tempting that Obi-Wan cannot help crawling into his lap. "Let me redress you?"

And only then does Obi-Wan seem to remember just where the two of them are. His face flushes, paying a furtive glance to the windows. “At least we aren’t in our robes,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the scar on Anakin’s eye before helping Anakin get dressed. “Could you imagine the scandal?”

Anakin laughs, pulling Obi-Wan closer as soon as he’s gotten some underlayers on. He smoothens the robes and wraps the cloak around him, moving the way he does when he’s putting together the plating on a particularly fragile device. “Yeah,” he hums, still smiling. “Maybe it’d improve our publicity? You know separatists are trying to paint us as, well. Scary. Too powerful. Emotionless.” He looks up, framing Obi-Wan’s face, feeling the soft texture of his beard against his palm. “...It’s so not true.”

Obi-Wan softens at the touch - it’s impossible not to, when Anakin is watching him with an expression that’s far too gentle to name. He leans in, resting their foreheads together with a low sigh. “Perhaps you’re just impossible to resist,” he murmurs, setting a hand over Anakin’s. “Is that too far fetched?”

“What’s too far fetched?” Anakin drawls with a _Mmm_ and leans into Obi-Wan’s touch, eyes falling shut. The many layers of fabric rustles as he wraps his arms tighter around Obi-Wan. Then, as though some cogwheels have turned in his mind, he opens his eyes. “This? I... I was thinking this is only the beginning, Master.” He fidgets a little, fingers curled Obi-Wan’s robes. “I thought...”

That smile starts to fade, and Obi-Wan can’t stand to see him go. “Hush, dear one.” He cradles Anakin’s face and leans in for another kiss, and another, and another, light, sweet reminders of how he loves him. Anakin melts, lips parted for the kisses, openly taking everything Obi-Wan gives him. He sighs as if letting go of a weight in his chest and Obi-Wan makes sure to surround him with his touch. Their bond glows brightly between them.

“...I don’t want to stop,” Obi-Wan murmurs, hand sliding back to settle on Anakin’s neck. “I don’t wish this to be... Something only for the sake of physical relief.”

“Then it won’t be.” Anakin smiles against Obi-Wan’s mouth, gratitude sweet on his lips. “I won’t stop, Obi-Wan. I’m yours. I love you.“

It’s more than Obi-Wan feels he deserves, truly, but there’s no accounting for that now. He just holds Anakin close, kissing him slowly, sweetly, savoring the warmth of his body against his own - before he shifts, and becomes aware of just how sore he’s starting to become. He grunts, nipping Anakin’s bottom lip. “Shall we get back to the temple, then? I’m in dire need of a shower.”

Anakin laughs as he maneuvers Obi-Wan off of him and back into his seat, even buckling the seatbelt for him as if he’s some kind of youngling. “So proper, Master.” 

“You wouldn’t be so casual if you were the one with spend running down your thigh,” Obi-Wan dryly says, and Anakin sputters a little. Even under the dim lighting, his face clearly reddens. After all of that, _this_ is what it takes to make him blush?

“I don’t know. Maybe I can find out next time,” Anakin mutters, and it’s Obi-Wan’s turn to laugh. He squeezes Anakin’s shoulder, stroking back those golden curls when he catches the timid look on Anakin’s face.

“Oh, Anakin,” he reassures. “You certainly can.”

Anakin leans over to kiss his cheek one more time, before starting the engine. Their speeder lifts and goes into motion again, with a lightness that Obi-Wan feels keenly in his heart. The stars shine above with an entirely novel glimmer, not unlike the scintillating new facets in their bond.


	6. as little space as possible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They punished the others for any deviance of mine," Obi-Wan says almost numbly, his gaze lifting in a sluggish arch towards the crowd of Togruta and then drops back down.
> 
> Despite how packed the medbay is, there's a noticeable berth around him.
> 
> Anakin swears under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: Semi-graphic description of injuries; mentions of past slavery. This is a Post-Zygerrian arc fix-it.

Jedi, clones and civilians all boarded the _Triumphant_ , setting the course for Kiros first and Coruscant later. The Togruta are safe, taking up the entire medbay as they’re given blankets and food and medical care. Ahsoka is safe, and Anakin congratulates her with a smile - she has done an incredibly well, truly better than he had, really - despite his hammering heart. Rex is safe; injured and famished but sound of spirit and already immediately pulled into a circle with his _vod_. And Obi-Wan...

Well. Obi-Wan’s alive.

His Master would never forgive him if he fusses over him in public, so Anakin waited. He has been waiting since they broke out of that hell-damned facility on Kadavo. Frankly he was already biding his time as soon he learned, from the mouth of the Queen herself, that Obi-Wan had been stolen away. The past three weeks had seemed like an eternity, and he has waited and waited and waited for far too long and now he is at his limit. It is only his _rights_ , he thinks, running through the corridors of the _Triumphant_ , chasing after the glimmer of Obi-Wan’s light. It is only his rights that he gets to check on his Master, his love, after the hell that he has been through. He hadn’t even a moment to have a proper look at him. The very last time he saw Obi-Wan, it was...

 _The handle of the electro-whip buzzed in his fist - a crude thing, a senseless sound, entirely unlike the gentle, sentient hum of a kyber. They stood on a small, slightly raised platform, in the middle of an arena that doubled as an auction house, it seemed. “Whip him,” said the queen from above, a disembodied voice among many. He didn’t really hear her, or hear anyone, or_ see _anyone. His entire universe had collapsed into one tiny spot, a singular man. Obi-Wan._

Anakin stops mid-leap, a hand clamped over his mouth as his stomach lurches. He doubles over and tries desperately to swallow it down - he doesn’t want to waste another moment - but he can’t. So he changes courses, making a beeline for the fresher. He only narrowly had time to hold his hair back before his knees hit the floor, and he retches into the vacc tube.

_Obi-Wan. He looked so lost, so drawn in on himself as they shoved him out here, his eyes looking up at the sky as if in wonder and apprehension both. His robes were tattered, dirtied, blood seeping through the layers at various degrees of severity, and no amount of telling himself that Obi-Wan was only faking the appearance could temper the rage that boiled up inside Anakin. Obi-Wan, his Master and friend and the most precious being in his life, knelt before him, hands behind his head, wrists bound, collared, baring his back submissively like a slave who had known slavery all his life._

His elbows are wobbly when Anakin straightens up. His throat burns pathetically from stomach acid and his eyes sting with a drop of tear. His hand still feels disgusting with the phantom buzz of the whip, so he curls his fingers up into a fist and slam his knuckles against the wall, trembling. He bites his lips and wills himself not to cry. He wipes his mouth and rinses it with mouthwash, as mortified as he is impatient to get out of here. He’s a grown Jedi; he’s not supposed to be this weak. Obi-Wan needs him.

He dashes out and makes it to his destination this time: the medbay, overcrowded with ex-slave civilians and droids and healers crisscrossing the platform. Anakin doesn’t need to look twice to find Obi-Wan, alone and untreated, his head in his hands, taking up as little space as possible in a corner at the back of the medbay. The Togruta seem to be avoiding him, but Anakin doesn’t have time to think about that. All the better: no one will look their way.

“Master,” he says, falling to his knees in front of Obi-Wan. It’s a stab of pain to his heart to see his Master like this: worn, and hurting, and wearing the same filthy robes he’d been wearing upon his capture. He touches Obi-Wan’s hands first, a flash of hot rage bursting in his chest when he sees the bruises of manacles on Obi-Wan’s wrists - but he tamps it down, for Obi-Wan’s sake. Only for Obi-Wan’s sake.

Obi-Wan slowly lowers his hands at Anakin’s voice. He blinks, rubbing his eyes, barely holding back a wince when he accidentally presses on the one that is black and swollen, before looking down at him. “Ah.” He breathes a low, weary sigh, his lips twitching up as if trying for a smile but not quite making it. “Anakin.”

Anakin cradles his face with both hands, and Obi-Wan leans into his touch in a way he usually never does where there are other eyes to see. “You blocked me while you were on Kadavo. I was so worried, and— _E chu ta_ , you’re so injured, I…”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “I didn’t mean to keep you so bereft - I just needed to maintain appearances.”

"No, it's"—Anakin's mouth is dry, the corners downturned in a frown so deep he feels like he'll never smile again—"fine. It's fine." He's almost sure Obi-Wan did it to prevent him from seeing what he had to go through. "I'm sorry, Master. I wanted to come sooner." Gently he takes Obi-Wan's hands, pressing reverent kisses to those scratched, swollen, blistered fingers. "I'm so, so sorry. Let me take a look at your wounds?”

Obi-Wan nods, shifting a little to allow Anakin space beside or behind him how he likes, and Anakin rushes to rise, summoning a medkit from nearby without a thought. All the healers and the medical droids are at full capacity, but there are just too many injured people to handle. He'll take the first aid into his own hands. His Master remains still and quiet, silent out of sheer exhaustion. He is so withdrawn, and the way his signature pulses so hollowly makes Anakin ache, a thorough ache that slowly sears into the very core of his being. He has never seen his Master like this. Had Obi-Wan not channeled the relief and quiet joy of being around him in the open bond between them, his silence would have worried Anakin to tears.

He unclasps Obi-Wan's belt, loosens the sash and parts the tattered fabric. His heart drops. These are wounds he knew too well: raised welts and livid bruises, crisscrossing. Obi-Wan's back is worse: the fabric of the undermost robes is stuck to it, caked with half-dried blood. There are light cuts that must have torn through the layers of Jedi robes... and then there are deep gashes that clearly resulted from direct lashes to the flesh. _They made him strip and beat him on purpose._

Anakin grinds his teeth together. He might go mad if he thinks about it for another second.

He lets out a harsh sigh, his empty stomach churning again with the need to dry heave. Obi-Wan will be fine. Anakin knows this. He is a Jedi Master, trained in releasing his pain and discomfort into the Force, who knows how to handle the physical and mental distress that came with what he had suffered. But this is intolerable. Obi-Wan is so wounded that Anakin can’t even hold him to comfort him. And this is not the first time Anakin has seen a body so mangled. He has seen the flesh of people he loved shredded under the whip of slavers one too many times. He'd sworn not to stand it again. He became a Jedi for this purpose: to be strong enough to protect. Why is it that he still couldn’t do anything this time? Why is it that he is a grown Jedi, and he still could not protect the people he cares for? Why Obi-Wan? Why does it have to be his beloved?

He rubs a hand roughly across his own eyes and rummages through the kit to find disinfecting bacta wipes.

"I should've gone in your place," Anakin says hoarsely, dabbing at the gashes. "This is unacceptable."

Obi-Wan reaches back and sets a hand on his knee. “I don’t regret going in your stead,” he says, firmly, his voice regaining a bit of strength. “I wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of you suffering through this again.”

There his Master goes again, wanting to protect him even now. Anakin bows his head, leaning forward to press a kiss to the chafing and the collar-shaped bruises on Obi-Wan's neck.

"I knew you'd say that, Master," he murmurs against skin, nosing at the shell of his ear before pulling back to clean the rest of the wounds. He cleans the gashes from the edges, watching Obi-Wan carefully for any sign of discomfort or pain - skies know how much he has gone through already. There is none, thankfully. Anakin applies each bacta patch with utmost care, smoothing the surface over before pressing a featherlight kiss over each. These are all temporary - there will be proper healer checkups later in the Temple - but if he does it right, maybe Obi-Wan won't have to stay in the hall of healings for long.

He moves to the front again, lightly tilting Obi-Wan's face up. He grimaces with every scratch, every cut, at the black eye and bruised jaw that he dabs at with bacta-damp cotton balls. "This is unforgivable," he says, in a low voice. "These are not battle wounds. They kept you from fighting back, didn't they?"

"They punished the others for any deviance of mine," Obi-Wan says almost numbly, his gaze lifting in a sluggish arch towards the crowd of Togruta and then drops back down.

Despite how packed the medbay is, there's a noticeable berth around him.

Anakin swears under his breath. This is so _wrong_. So wrong it twists up his insides and his stomach tightens for the third time in less than half a standard hour, so badly that he has to pause his task and quickly releases the physical sensation into the Force. He feels utterly crushed. How _dare_ those Zygerrian swine-borns use Obi-Wan’s most precious purpose in life - _to lend aid to those in need, to the best of our ability_ , said he once, says he often - against him. How dare they do this to Obi-Wan, his Obi-Wan, his Master, his gentle light, his beacon of hope. _This is not fair not fair not fair._ Darkness swells up in his being, rising like tidal waves, crashing against the ragged edges of his pain, his anger. If he hadn't killed all of the slavers on his way breaking into the Kadavo facility, he'd be on a rampage for them right now, doubling back to scrub the galaxy of those last few who remained. He almost wishes he could come back and kill them all, and then do it again. They deserve to die a thousand times over.

"Slavers are the most creative with cruelty." Anakin combs his hand through matted hair, stroking gently, avoiding the tender part. There are hot, furious tears in his eyes, but his voice doesn’t waver. He needs to reassure his Master as much as he needs to reassure himself. "It wasn't your fault, Obi-Wan. It was never your fault."

Obi-Wan studies him for a long moment. Even now, looking like he is halfway passing out, concern shines in his eyes. He raises a hand and touches Anakin’s face, his thumb skirting Anakin’s lower lashes at the exact moment a drop of tear brims over.

“It isn’t yours either, you know,” he whispers.

“Don’t worry about me, Master,” Anakin brushes it off, despite his quivering lips, despite his nasal voice cracking. He leans in to kiss Obi-Wan’s forehead, and Obi-Wan slides his hand over to squeeze his nape - a gesture of reassurance that he can but cherish.

Then Obi-Wan sighs, and leans into him, pressing his face into his shoulder. His movements are stiff, like he’s propping himself up with the Force, otherwise he would collapse. “...I’m looking forward to some sort of a break, after this,” he murmurs.

"I'll fight for one if I have to," Anakin declares, tilting his head over to kiss his Master on the temple, on the tip of his ear. Obi-Wan shivers a little, his torso only covered in bacta patches and nothing more, and Anakin frowns. “Here, I'll…” He coaxes Obi-Wan back just enough to undress himself with his other hand, putting away belt and sash before pulling back to shrug off the rest of his robes. He has worn his tunic for days, but at least it’s intact and not bloody.

Wordlessly Anakin brings his tunic around Obi-Wan while it’s still warm of his body heat, gently sleeving his arms, tying it at the waist for him. Obi-Wan offers a small surge of relief over their bond in thanks and doesn’t say much more than that. Anakin manages to sling the outer robe over his Master’s shoulders before Obi-Wan falls against him. His eyes sides shut and he dozes right there, exhaustion clear to the naked eye. Loath to let his love sleep on the cold, hard table, he lifts Obi-Wan off of it and cradles him to his chest, inhaling the scent of him, blood and ash and suffering. In such disquiet, there is still a bone-deep sense of reassurance in being able to gather his Master into a perfect armful, to hold and to keep. Obi-Wan’s breathing evens out against his neck. Obi-Wan's heart is beating steadily right beside his own. He is sound asleep.

Anakin buries his face into his Obi-Wan’s hair, and silently cries.

He sits in the medbay with his beloved held fast to his bare chest. He sits and lets tears streak down his face gracelessly until he no longer has tears to shed. He sits there for Force knows how long, taking comfort solely in the rhythm of Obi-Wan’s pulse and the light of Obi-Wan’s signature. His Master’s mental shields are ajar only to him, to their Force bond, a gesture of trust that doesn’t go unheeded. The only thing that keeps Anakin’s thoughts from spiraling into visions of bloodthirst and vengeance is the knowledge that any such disturbance would disrupt Obi-Wan’s sleep.

Anakin is not asleep, but he doesn’t feel awake either, so wholly focused he is on wrapping his entire being around his Master. Some part of him keeps reaching towards Obi-Wan in the Force until he is sure he could hear damaged cells repairing themselves, could feel torn flesh knitting back together. He’s never trained himself in the art of Force-healing, so he cannot be sure. It’s the closest Anakin has ever come to a static meditative trance, and willingly. He emerges from it when a gentle hand sets on his shoulder.

The healer clone of Master Plo’s battalion looks at him with soft eyes. “Thank you, General Skywalker, for looking after General Kenobi,” he says, quiet. “I believe it would be best if we just let him rest until we return to the Temple.”

Anakin nods. He stays in the medbay instead of leaving to find a bunker room or some such. He is fine, as long as Obi-Wan is warm and safe in his arms and he can listen to his breathing. He presses a kiss to Obi-Wan’s head every time he stirs, murmuring soft little _It’s alright_ and _You’re safe, Master_ while letting Obi-Wan shift as he likes. Sometimes he glances down and sees the dark bruises on Obi-Wan’s face and his eyes go misty again. He knows injuries like these are practically superficial wounds to a Jedi such as his Master. Knowing, and acting on it, are very different things.

He doesn't wake Obi-Wan when they land. Gingerly he rises to his feet with Obi-Wan still in his arms, silently alarmed at how much lighter his Master has gotten after such a short period of time. He carries the General of the 212th in his arms, across the ship, through the hangar, into the Temple, in front of the troopers, the Jedi, everyone. He looks straight ahead on his path, his expression inviting no question - until Ahsoka comes to his side.

“Hey,” she says quietly, catching up to his steps.

“Obi-Wan will be alright,” Anakin replies automatically.

“I know he will. I’m worried about you, Master,” Ahsoka bluntly says. “Have you even drank water since we got on the ship?”

Anakin lets out a faint laugh, to which his Padawan only quirks a brow (did she learn that from Obi-Wan?). The thing is, he hasn’t. “I’m fine, Snips.”

Ahsoka squeezes him by the upper arm. “I know you like to think you’re invincible, Skyguy, but really, you can’t take care of him if you don’t take care of yourself.”

She definitely learned that from Obi-Wan.

Anakin glances down and meets her great blue eyes, so full of concern, and softens. “Yes, fine,” he says, giving her a genuine smile. “Have a bit of faith in your Master, will you?”

“I just want to make sure you don’t suddenly drop dead in two days, Anakin.” Despite her wry words, Ahsoka gives him a tired smile. “I have a few years left until my trials and I _really_ don’t want another transfer right now.”

“Alright, alright, point taken.” She only ever launches into this kind of sarcasm when she is too worried and doesn’t want to repeat herself. If Anakin’s hands are free, he would have patted her head; as it stands, he could only extend his appreciation through their bond. “You take care of yourself as well, yeah?”

“Oh, _you_ don’t have to worry about that.” She rolls her eyes, salutes at him with two fingers above the brow (finally something she learned from him), and they part ways.

Anakin heads straight to his and Obi-Wan’s quarters. The door slides close behind him, and he’s not two steps in before he feels warm stirrings in the bond. The sight of Obi-Wan slowly waking up, already looking slightly refreshed, manages to make him smile a little bit. "Hey sleeping beauty.”

“This is hardly necessary,” Obi-Wan insists, though his protest seems half-hearted at best, with a nuzzle to Anakin’s shoulder and a pulse of warmth through their bond. “I can walk to the refresher.”

"I can put you down when we're in the refresher," Anakin says, tone resolute.

And he does what he says, carrying Obi-Wan all the way in there before setting him down on the edge of the bathtub. He kneels down and leans in, meaning to kiss Obi-Wan on the lips now that they are finally alone, but Obi-Wan grimaces and recoils.

Anakin blinks at him. His heart gives a loud, painful thump, like it’s cracking and ready to shatter. His throat clogs up even though he has run out of tears to cry, but he doesn’t say anything, racking his mind for a joke to play it off as.

Obi-Wan already sees everything. “Anakin, that’s”—he frames Anakin’s face with both hands—“not what I mean. I’m just…”

“It’s alright, Master, I—”

“No, Anakin, listen to me. I’m...” Obi-Wan sighs, glancing down at himself. “I’m filthy right now.”

Oh. Anakin breathes out shakily, relieved. "Can I wash you, then?” His arms circle around Obi-Wan’s waist. “Please?"

“If you don’t mind,” Obi-Wan allows, cracking a small smile. “I’m certainly in dire need of a bath.”

Anakin nods and sets to work. He starts the water and unwraps Obi-Wan from his own robes, unlaces his trousers, tossing everything into the laundry basket right beside it. Steam rises as the tub fills, and he mixes a generous scoop of bacta salts into the tub, then squeezes Obi-Wan's hand. "Get in, Master."

Obi-Wan climbs in the tub, breathing a low, satisfied sigh as he sinks into the hot water. “...This is divine, Anakin. Thank you.”

Anakin smiles. "I still remember," he says, as he leans over Obi-Wan to pick out the body wash, shampoo and conditioner, "when I first came here. I know, I know, it's a while ago, but I can't forget." He brings down the showerhead, rinsing Obi-Wan's hair. "I was so worried about breaking something. And there was _so much_ water, it felt criminal to use it all. I was actually really afraid of the fresher." He laughs a bit as he lathers shampoo into Obi-Wan's hair, minding the tender spot. "I was _nine years old_ , Master, and you had to bathe me. For two weeks."

Obi-Wan chuckles at the nostalgia. “I was only too happy when you opened up and let me help you. You were so wary in the beginning. And such a polite child, too... What happened?” 

“I don’t know, Master. Puberty?”

“Regrettably.”

They both break out into full laughter this time. Fondness curls through their bonds and weaves around Anakin’s heart, warming it, fending off all darkness. The time it takes for them to sober, he has already rinsed Obi-Wan’s hair out, gently massaging the conditioner into his scalp. 

“It wasn’t a chore, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, eyes tender on him. “I would do it all over again.”

Anakin softens. He leans over to kiss Obi-Wan's cheek. "I love you," he murmurs, all senses of the phrase overlapping into one great, encompassing sentiment that elevates his being and makes him whole in a way he couldn't describe. "Then you should also know that I want to take care of you too, Master. If that back then was not a chore to you, then this"—he rubs a bit of body wash into Obi-Wan's skin, kneading the smears of dust and dirt away from his neck—"is never a chore to me."

Obi-Wan tilts his head up, breathing a low sigh at the careful treatment. “...Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes sliding shut. “Thank you.” His signature emits a gentle serenity, and the humble gratitude of one who feels fortunate for such simple care - one who feels treasured, in all senses of the word, safe and cared for and warm, inside and out. It all thrums through their Force bond, and Anakin smiles broadly, his chest so full and warm. In return is his own love, bright and never still, like the surface of the sun, with an oath of utter devotion.

"No need to thank me,” he says, rinsing Obi-Wan’s hair out before waving a washcloth over from the drawer. “Turn towards me a bit, alright?”

He dampens the washcloth and washes Obi-Wan's face, dabbing gently at the bruises. He cleans the rest of his body as well, wiping rather than rubbing, careful as though restoring a precious thousand year old artefact. The water has started to cool, and Obi-Wan looks like he’s halfway between meditation and dozing off.

"Do you want to get out, Master?" Anakin leans over and kisses Obi-Wan's forehead; he smells like his shampoo now, fresh and soft. "I could start the water again. You could enjoy the hot water for a bit more," he speaks, hushed, smiling.

Obi-Wan hums drowsily, leaning closer. “I could do with some rest,” he murmurs, fingers curling around Anakin’s wrist. “So long that you stay close.”

“Where else am I going to be?” Anakin brushes the wet strands from Obi-Wan’s forehead. It’s been a long time since he saw his Master this drowsy, and while the clear exhaustion is a stab to his heart, he’s also relieved at the prospect of Obi-Wan getting a good night’s sleep. “Alright, Master, hold on to me then.”

The water ripples and splashes softly as he fits his arm under Obi-Wan’s knees, gathering him up and setting him on the edge of the tub. Towels float down; Anakin drapes one over Obi-Wan’s hair and pats him dry with the other, from shoulder to toe, lowering himself to his knees as he goes. He leans up from time to time to press adoring kisses to his Master’s face. Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter at the comfort; warm gratitude radiates between them.

“Thank you,” he murmurs again, leaning down to graze his chapped lips on Anakin’s forehead, his fingertips lingering against his cheek. “I love you.”

Anakin smiles. “I love you too, Master,” he says, eyes falling shut just to enjoy this soft, balmy moment of affection. “I’ll bring you to bed, and I’ll clean myself before I come back. Won’t be long.”

“You had better take a shower while I brush my teeth,” Obi-Wan points out, a strangely sober note for a voice so drowsy. “I can walk, you know.” 

“You’re barely awake.” Anakin chuckles, ushering him gently towards the sink. “Come on Master, I’ll wait. Just… let me take care of you this once, alright?”

“As if you haven’t been an utter mother Tooka all this time.” Obi-Wan gives him a sideways glance before reaching for the toothbrush.

“Like I said, Master. Everything I know, I learned from you.”

Obi-Wan huffs, so very close to rolling his eyes. “None of that now.”

Anakin leans against a wall, arms crossed, simply watching Obi-Wan with a vague, absentminded smile. When he looks at Obi-Wan and has him near and safe, he doesn’t have to think about the phantom buzz in his palm, the slaver’s whip cracking by his command, the disgust that bursts and splatters in his heart like poison. He doesn’t have to think about the images unearthed from his buried childhood, incoherent memories and cobbled together phantasms, of flies swarming about the bodies strung up in the yard, of slaves whipped for sport and left in the sun and desert winds for weeks on end; of someone’s cool hands covering his eyes, covering his ears, _Ani, don’t look_. When he takes care of Obi-Wan, at least he is mending something, helping someone, healing some wounds, the way he had wished he could.

“Where have you gone in your mind, now?”

Anakin blinks and realizes his Master is done, standing right before him. Obi-Wan’s hand cups his cheek, thumb dragging down the dried tear marks in silent acknowledgment. Anakin shakes his head and smiles. “Nowhere. I’m right here, Master.” He straightens up, wraps Obi-Wan in the towel and scoops him up again, nuzzling his hair for a moment. “We’ll stay in my room tonight, alright, Master? I’ve missed you”—he kisses the grey on Obi-Wan’s temple—“so much.”

Obi-Wan allows him everything this time without protest. “I’ve missed you as well.”

Anakin carries him inside and sets him on the bed. He grabs his own sleeping robes from the closet, once again dressing Obi-Wan in his color. “I sort of like this,” he says, grinning as he holds up his Master’s hands, both lost in the overlong sleeves, and presses his lips to every fingertip that peeks out.

Obi-Wan huffs, even as he lays back, eyes half-lidded like a contented Loth-cat. “Of course you would,” he accuses, though there’s not a trace of heat to be found there. He smiles at the kisses, settling warm and safe in bed. “I think you’re missing your calling as a crèchemaster, Padawan mine.”

"Are you calling yourself a crècheling, Master?" Anakin's voice is too feathery and fond to even carry a teasing lilt. He smoothes Obi-Wan's hair back and kisses his head. The sight of Obi-Wan safe and swathed in softness makes Anakin want to keep him there forever, never to let harm come to him again. _Safe and sound and mine._

He comes back after a quick, pleasantly scalding shower, rinsing the smell of the slaver's armors off of him. He doesn't bother to toss on a shirt, sliding under the covers with his skin still flushed and steaming. Obi-Wan opens his eyes halfway, obviously struggling to stay awake. Anakin wraps his arms around his Master slow and gentle, their naked legs tangling together in the warmth under the blanket. Obi-Wan breathes a low hum, his arms wrapping tight around him, his face pressed in the crook of Anakin’s neck. It’s nice just to feel him, to smell him, to drown in his signature and know that everything is well again. The universe has narrowed down to these two points, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

The many bacta patches and bandages on Obi-Wan's body makes for a mismatched texture against his bare arms. Anakin wants to kiss them all. He thinks he will, come morning.

“Goodnight, dear one,” Obi-Wan murmurs, tilting his head just enough to steal a kiss - one that Anakin gladly, sweetly, wholeheartedly gives to him. When he parts, Obi-Wan has already drifted off.

"Goodnight, my heart," Anakin whispers into still-damp hair. “I love you the most.”


	7. as leisurely as before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Force forbid,” Obi-Wan teases, draping his arms around Anakin’s neck. “Two weeks? How am I to keep you entertained?”
> 
> "You got it backwards, Master." Anakin gives a small laugh, pressing sweet little kisses to Obi-Wan’s lips and nuzzling his forehead. "I'll keep you entertained. However you like."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit smut featuring: cockwarming (mentioned), consensual somnophilia, come eating, bottom Anakin, top Obi-Wan.

Morning comes sprawling across the bedroom, lazy light draped over fuzzy lines. Obi-Wan awakes from blessedly dreamless sleep to the sound of even breaths, to the warmth of loving arms. The feeling of the Force nexus and of Anakin’s signature practically wrapped around his own tells him where he is before his mind even properly resurfaces. These are no slave barracks. The entire Zygerrian system (Kadavo included) has been occupied by Republic forces, the slaves freed, and in the midst of rehabilitation. Which reminds him...

“Mission report,” he whispers to himself, eyes fluttering open. He stirs, and winces. His entire body is one great dull ache, but at least the absence of sharp pain is welcome.

Above him, Anakin groans and only tightens his arms _and_ his legs, trapping Obi-Wan against his furnace body. “Really, Master? Not even…” He gives a mighty yawn. “...Not even a ‘Good morning’?”

Obi-Wan looks up. Anakin’s curls tumble across his forehead, sticking to his cheeks in spiral patterns, a tousled halo around his crown glowing golden in the morning light. He has washed his face clean from the tear tracks, but his eyelids are still slightly puffy. Difficult not to soften at that.

“Morning, darling.” Obi-Wan used to tiptoe around the endearments, not wanting to push boundaries, but not a single part of him is second-guessing himself over it now. Not when Anakin is smiling all sweet and smitten at him like this, leaning down to kiss him all over his face, his Force signature a pure beacon of light and delight. He gives a breathy laughter, appreciative. “How did you sleep?”

He threads his hand through Anakin’s hair and Anakin sighs, nuzzling into his touch. “Fine,” his old Padawan says. Obi-Wan senses dishonesty and the faintest trace of nightmares, like a sour taste of morning breath in his mouth. “You, Master?”

“More than fine,” Obi-Wan smiles, stroking back those curls. “All thanks to you.” Anakin does blush so prettily. “Fine enough for a debriefing before the Council.”

Anakin pouts nearly as prettily as he blushes. “Not you,” he declares, draws back, and sits up. He puts a hand flat on Obi-Wan’s chest when he tries to do the same, and has the gall to stare back when Obi-Wan levels him with a cocked brow. “I go. You stay here and rest, Obi-Wan.”

“Oh come now, Anakin. I am hardly bedridden.”

“I’m trying to make a point.”

“Which is?”

“You need to heal.” Anakin gives him an earnest look of concern and pecks him on the lips. “Relax. Snips and I got this.”

It is a fair point. Anakin gets dressed. Obi-Wan sees him off with a smile and shuffles around in his night clothes (or rather, his sleeping trousers and one of Anakin’s shirts) fetching tea and settling down to meditate by the sunbright window.

The memories of Kadavo taint his water-clear balance like sediment stirred up in a crystalline stream. He had personally failed to protect anyone, even Captain Rex, while held in the mining complex. He anchors himself in the knowledge that their mission has succeeded, and all the Togruta have been liberated. Regardless of his shortfalls, good prevails, and the only thing he can do is move forward.

Yet Anakin worries him still. 

Obi-Wan is not blind to what lies beyond the facade. Anakin’s tears from yesterday are hardly the end of it. He regrets not making an objection to the Council when this mission was brought to the table. He trusted Anakin to react and attempt to decline, were he discomfited by the idea of posing as a slaver. He should have known that Anakin would have never let down his pride like that. He should have known that even Anakin himself couldn’t have anticipated the severe complications of the mission, and how that could have crushed him from within.

Darkness takes many forms. Anger and hate are so prominently cited that they often overshadow the quiet, icy pain of fear, of dejection, of powerlessness. Anakin has always held a little too tightly to those he loves. In making the decision to indulge the both of them, to be selfish and let Anakin be selfish, Obi-Wan has made an oath to himself: that he shall not lead them to the mutual destruction that stems from fear of loss.

He has known Anakin long enough to develop a plan: open discussion, verbal reassurance, moving meditation, and merely existing in each other’s space; anything to remind Anakin that he isn’t alone.

The only limitation is time. Precious time that they do not have. 

Mid-morning, a healer stops by to check on him and leave extra supplies.

“Your injuries are healing well, Master Kenobi,” they remark, pointedly not mentioning the state of Obi-Wan’s robes. “These are the work of a Force-wielder, if I am not mistaken.”

“Oh.” No wonder some of his bruises have already begun to fade to yellow. “That must have been Anakin.”

“Ah, I see. In that case, Knight Skywalker has done an excellent job. Do make sure he doesn’t overexert himself.” Their eyes crinkle with genuine praise, before they go on their way.

The rest of the morning is as uneventful as can be. As high noon approaches, Obi-Wan sets down the datapad and makes himself useful in the kitchen. He is in the midst of stirring a pot on the stove - lunch for both himself and Anakin - when the main door flies open.

“Master!” Anakin’s voice rings excitedly across their shared living space. There is shuffling and rustling all around before Anakin skips barefoot into the kitchenette with several paper bags at his arms, grinning ear to ear. “I’ve got pastries and good news.”

“Oh?”

“We’re getting time off!”

Obi-Wan’s brows shoot up, pleasantly surprised. “I can’t imagine the Council was too happy to grant it,” he muses. “What did you say to convince them?”

Anakin piles all the paper bags on one end of the counter and leans in to kiss his cheek first thing. "I didn't say anything! I was going to say a lot of things," Anakin declares proudly, and it occurs to Obi-Wan that perhaps Anakin really _was_ ready to fight for it, "but they just told me we get time off the battlefield. You and me, and Snips and Rex. It was the healers’ suggestion… And Master Plo especially." He wraps his arms around Obi-Wan's waist. "So, two standard weeks. You're stuck with me."

 _Oh, I’ll need to send a personal thank you to Plo._ For now, though, Obi-Wan’s attention is wholly on Anakin. “Force forbid,” he teases, draping his arms around Anakin’s neck. “Two weeks? How am I to keep you entertained?”

"You got it backwards, Master." Anakin gives a small laugh, pressing sweet little kisses to Obi-Wan’s lips and nuzzling his forehead. "I'll keep you entertained. However you like."

Obi-Wan hums warmly at the kisses, his fingers just lightly tangling in Anakin’s hair. “Dear one,” he murmurs, nipping his bottom lip. “So long that I have you, I’ll be happy.”

"Me too. I only need you. I..." Anakin sighs, leaning into Obi-Wan's hand, eyes fluttering shut. Obi-Wan’s heart beats heavily in his chest, an echo of Anakin’s own pain. "...I plan on pleasuring you," he confesses quietly. His eyes open and he gives a lip-bitten smile, flushing a little. "I want to make you feel good while your body heals, Master. If you want me to."

Obi-Wan blinks. All of these years together, and Anakin still finds a way to surprise him. He smiles, a crooked, earnest little look as he cradles Anakin’s face in his hands. It's been a long time since they were together for this long in the Temple, without any operation hanging over their head, nor sleepless nights waiting ahead - of course that would inspire Anakin.

“As if I could possibly resist you,” he says, soft and indulgent, pulling Anakin down to rest their foreheads together. “If you’d like to, darling.”

"That settles it.” Anakin kisses him again like he'll never tire of it, folding him snug into his arms. He glances at the stove then, finally registering the scent. "That smells good, Master. I’m hungry."

“Are you ever not?” Obi-Wan reaches up to ruffle his hair. Later. He will bring up Anakin’s troubled mind later.

—

Obi-Wan’s always known Anakin to be doting - but he’s never imagined him to be _this_ doting. 

With Anakin, affection is oft indistinguishable from worship. And his worship is blind and all-consuming. Force only knows what horror lurks in the predawn of his mind when Anakin tearfully jolts awake in the midst of a tossing dream; what Anakin still sees when he traces Obi-Wan’s faded bruises with feather-light fingers and somber eyes. The first time he kneels between Obi-Wan’s legs, Anakin says, _“Please, Master. For me.”_ And sure enough, every time, as his eyes flutter shut and his face flushes, blissed out, Obi-Wan would reach out in the Force to find that Anakin’s signature has gentled, the storm clearing from his light. It is certainly… unorthodox, to consider this meditation, but the effect is the same. It quiets Anakin’s mind.

And it rouses his own. He wakes every morning with the sight of Anakin between his legs, his pretty lips stretched around his cock. Anakin insists on dropping to his knees after dessert every night, even if it’s just to gently suckle, keeping Obi-Wan on the brink of hardness for upwards of an hour at a time. Anakin doesn’t let him return the favor with any more than his touch - he’s too wounded for anything else, his former Padawan insists, he needs to focus on his recovery. Obi-Wan believes that if he focuses on his recovery any _longer_ , he may just go mad. 

So it’s time for some payback. 

On the cusp of the second week, he wakes shortly before morning. Anakin still slumbers beside him, deep and calm, and Obi-Wan takes just a moment to admire the unguarded innocence of his sleeping face. He moves slowly, with a careful suggestion in the Force to keep Anakin relaxed, and asleep, asleep, asleep. He takes great care to pull the blankets back, to gently pull away to not wake Anakin up. His hair splays a dark honey gold against the pillow, just barely catching the light of the rising sun beyond the window. 

Obi-Wan sits up, slowly, his eyes raking over Anakin’s bare body. Perhaps this should feel like he is taking liberties, but he rests assured that he will do nothing to Anakin that Anakin would not do to him, will stop at the slightest sign of discomfort - it’s the give and take in their relationship, the unspoken understanding that radiates from them both. He reaches into the nightstand drawer to pull out the lube, warming it between his fingers (and paying careful glances to Anakin all the while), before delving down, down. 

He nuzzles along Anakin’s inner thigh, and _oh_ , how quickly Anakin’s legs open for him. His mouth trails along the line of his cock as two fingers slide inside at once, slow, searching, stretching, ensuring Anakin will be perfect for him. Anakin sighs, clenching slightly, caught in that twilight between waking and sleeping. He arches a little, hips already rocking, trying to bear down.

"Nng, more..." Anakin mumbles, turning his head to the side.

Always so insatiable, even when he is still barely awake. Obi-Wan doesn’t expend any of the Force to keep him asleep, just resting his cheek against Anakin’s inner thigh and admiring his form, all for him to watch. He slides in another finger at Anakin’s prompting, smiling in his approval, twisting them, and stretching them wide. He pointedly avoids Anakin’s prostate just yet, not wanting to shock him into full wakefulness.

Anakin whines, spreading his thighs a little wider as though to accommodate. His signature pulses through a fog of grogginess. "Obi..." He writhes a little, lips parted, eyelids trembling as his body awakes before his mind does, his cock filling, his core warming. It takes him another deep sigh before his eyes open. "...Oh?" His expression breaks into a sleepy smile. "You're—aah—up too early, Master."

Obi-Wan smiles, kissing along Anakin’s shaft. “Good morning, darling,” he murmurs, tongue trailing along the underside. Anakin’s breath stutters. “On the contrary, it looks like you’re the one sleeping in. You’re usually so diligent about it.” He thrusts his fingers up, curling them pointedly in just the right spot.

Anakin moans, legs twisting, fingers curling into the sheets. "That, ah," he struggles, rocking his hips to seek more. "You're not supposed to, _oh_ , over... overexert..."

“I think I’m fine, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says against his skin, meeting Anakin’s eyes as he drags the flat of his tongue against the slit. “Unless you would rather I prove it to you.”

Anakin gasps, arching up, breathless under Obi-Wan’s ministrations: his mouth, his movements, his meandering touch. “I don’t want, ah, _fuck_ , to risk your...”

“So I’ll just have to prove you wrong, then.” Obi-Wan thrusts in his fingers one more time, and Anakin seems to have lost the wherewithal to show more doubt.

“I need...” Anakin groans, never finishing his sentence as he huffs and whines when Obi-Wan draws away. He looks up with heavy-lidded eyes, caught between anticipation and precipitation, chest rising and falling raggedly while Obi-Wan slicks himself up. Yet his gaze still roams across Obi-Wan’s chest, where span yellowed bruises and pink, healed scars, and Obi-Wan can feel the darkness roiling around in the back of Anakin’s mind, clouding the brightest part of himself. 

His hands settle on Anakin’s thighs, propping him up, exposing him perfectly. Sometimes, darkness is managed by a multistep, thought-out plan. Other times, what it takes is to take Anakin until he lacks the room for higher thinking. Obi-Wan rolls his hips, and slides home.

“ _Master_ ,” Anakin moans and squeezes his eyes shut, his presence blurring into static for a moment in the Force. His chest heaves, his body clenching greedily and it takes Obi-Wan’s breath away.

Obi-Wan rocks forward, hair falling loosely into his face as he watches Anakin, savors him. He’s beautiful - incredibly beautiful, Obi-Wan murmuring as much as he pulls back and thrusts again, starting up a smooth, slow, _deep_ rhythm, pushing into him and grinding up against his prostate every time before drawing back out. He makes every long slide _counts_ , drawing all the breath out of Anakin’s lungs in sharp gasps and crescendoing moans. 

Anakin’s head tips back, exposing himself more - if more is even possible - and his eyes begin to water from the intensity. His mental shields swiftly fall like petals as he rolls his hips back. “Obi... Obi-Wan, I...”

The pleas to be wanted, to be claimed, to be marked echo between them, burning bright, chasing away the wild dark, casting only tame shadows. And it would be a lie to say that Obi-Wan does not love how desperate Anakin gets in these moments, when he cares for nothing but the feeling of his Master deep within him. He can’t tear his eyes from Anakin’s beautiful desperation, his hands tightening on his thighs, leaving the ghost of his bruises behind.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, suddenly sharply snapping his hips. “Eyes on me, Anakin. Only me.”

Tear-bright eyes open at the order, lashes heavy and pupils blown. Sweat rolls over his skin and his hair musses up between his head and the mattress as he arches up impossibly tight, hands scrabbling at the sheets, sobbing something incoherent, something that sounds like Obi-Wan’s name. Sensations flash hotly from Anakin to him in their bond as he teeters on the precipice, _so close, I’m so close, gonna lose my mind_ , but at the same time, _wanna stay here, forever, forever_ , blissed out blank, trembling apart under Obi-Wan’s touch.

Obi-Wan takes him with a controlled abandon that’s meant to send his body into the sweetest overdrive. Anakin keens, and clenches, and showers of stars rush through Obi-Wan’s veins, pooling and burning at the base of his spine. Obi-Wan focuses solely on Anakin’s heat-hazy gaze, hand dropping to his cock. He doesn’t waste his time in teasing him, his wrist twisting on every upstroke.

“Good boy,” he praises, breathless, giving another long, measured thrust. “Let me see you.”

Anakin is incandescent and senseless, moaning so loud at those simple two words that his voice goes hoarse and silent for a moment. His pleasure pours into Obi-Wan’s core like hot molten metal, so wonderful it drives a groan out of Obi-Wan in chorus. His hips snap, body tightening as though galvanized, sliding home over and over again with intent precision. Anakin reaches up to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into flesh for anchorage, crying out, a climbing musical triplet of _ah, ah, ah_ as he shivers and clenches.

He is a flushed, whimpering mess, his body a shuddering arch glistening with sweat and come, his cock still dripping, leaking onto his stomach. Saliva gathers at the corners of his red wet lips and tears gather at the corners of his eyes. There has never been anything so obscene and divine all at once. The very sight is enough to have Obi-Wan’s head bowing, his breath harshly catching as his hand tightens on Anakin’s hip.

It takes a great deal of effort, but he manages not to lose it right then and there. Perfect. While Anakin still spasms, Obi-Wan slowly begins to roll his hips, just as leisurely as before. He drives into Anakin deep and purposeful. Silent and out of breath, Anakin gasps, his oversensitive body twisting up as his knees jerk. Broken syllables of _Obi-Wan_ and _Yes_ escape through wide parted lips.

“Yes, Anakin?” Obi-Wan manages, holding his ground, even as arousal coils tight in his core, the thread ready to snap just any moment now. “What is it?”

“Fuck,” Anakin manages, near-pain pleasure flaring in the Force. “ _Please._ ”

Obi-Wan almost considers ignoring him, and continuing to take him slowly, methodically, until he finally sees fit to reach his own end. But he takes some pity on the poor boy; he pulls out and strokes himself while Anakin whines from the sudden emptiness, watching him, only half-aware. Obi-Wan doesn’t know what possesses him to do so in that moment - perhaps a primal, un-Jedi-like desire for ownership; perhaps a sheer desire to please Anakin in exactly the way Anakin wants to be pleased. He groans as he spills across Anakin’s front, branding his chest, come mingling with Anakin’s own. Anakin mewls, and how Obi-Wan wants to capture this moment in amber and bury it in the safest corner of his heart. 

They pant in tandem as they come down from the heat. Obi-Wan reaches down to stroke back Anakin’s hair, wiping his eyes. Anakin smiles breathlessly at him, taking his hand so innocently… and drags Obi-Wan’s fingers over the come on his front then brings them to his lips. Obi-Wan’s breath stops.

“Help me clean up, Master,” Anakin whispers, before taking his fingers into his mouth.

“Force,” Obi-Wan breathes, his cock giving a valiant twitch at the display. He does what he is told, gathering the spend on his fingers and letting Anakin suck and lick them clean. He draws back once Anakin’s front is relatively clean, fingertips trailing along his bottom lip with a warm and positively loving smile. “Are you convinced of my health yet?” He teases.

Anakin chuckles, still gathering his breath. The air is cooling on their sweat-slick, come-stained bodies, and he shivers a little. “Mmmn,” he mumbles, grinning lazily, cradling Obi-Wan’s hand to his cheek. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“How do you mean, maybe not?” Obi-Wan laughs, pulling back to go find a cloth, but he’s stopped by Anakin’s insistent squeeze on his hand.

“Need more persuading.” Anakin runs his gilded fingers up Obi-Wan’s thigh, spreading his legs a little wider despite the ache that must surely be setting in right now. His eyes fall shut in a distinctly decadent fashion. “Like this.”

“Of course you do,” Obi-Wan mutters, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “You mean you want to be sore again.”

“Yes, Master.” Anakin hums, nuzzling so sweetly against him. “I can’t wait.”

“Sneaky little thing.” Obi-Wan sighs, sliding his hand behind Anakin’s neck, gently squeezing his nape. “You could have just asked, dear one.”

Anakin slowly opens his eyes with a smirk. “What’s the fun in that?”

—

Anakin has a love for clear nights, star-bright, but Obi-Wan is rather fond of night rains, with the curtains pulled shut over a weeping black sky. The rhythmic pitter-patter makes for a soothing little melody, perfect for a gentle, laid-back atmosphere as Anakin tucks his head under Obi-Wan’s chin, breath fanning over his neck, half-asleep heedless of the light from Obi-Wan’s datapad.

“Your back is going to suffer if you sleep this way,” Obi-Wan whispers, rubbing his hand up and down Anakin’s spine. “You should get up and lie down in bed, dear one.”

“Not without you,” Anakin mutters, snuggling closer. “We only got another day.”

That gives Obi-Wan pause. Time does fly when they enjoy it; two standard weeks have gone by in a blink. He threads his fingers through Anakin’s hair, petting him and earning himself a satisfied hum. “Does it bother you?”

“It does.” Anakin sighs, and the current of air carries his warm breath all the way under Obi-Wan’s tunic. “I hate seeing you hurt. I—I know that wounds will heal. I just…” He doesn’t continue. His mechno-hand curls and unfurls against the creases of Obi-Wan’s robes. 

There he is again: his fierce devotion, muddled only by his fearful protectiveness; his boundless love, tainted only by his desperate desire to hold on too tight. Obi-Wan finds it difficult to fault him too much. Not after Kadavo. Helplessness exacerbated by a sense of _uselessness_ is something he understands intimately now, and he cannot imagine how much worse it must have been for his beloved.

“I know how you feel, Anakin. Wounds heal, but wounds leave scars. It’s the scars that bother you, isn’t it?” He takes Anakin’s metal hand, holding it loosely in his own. He brings it to his lips, kissing the gilded fingertips. “Tell me about yours, if you will.”

Anakin is silent, for a long, long moment. He draws his hand away and straightens up, and fixes Obi-Wan with a doe-eyed stare. “...I can’t get it out of my head, Obi-Wan,” he begins, biting his lip. “When I was told to—When I held the whip. And you were there, kneeling. And you looked like…” _A processed slave_ , Obi-Wan hears the echo of it from Anakin’s mind.

Anakin sucks in a breath, shaking his head. “I kept having dreams where I did it. Where I really raised the whip and hurt you. I don’t anymore, but it still makes me feel… I don’t know, bad. Like, wanting to blow up Kadavo kind of bad.” He gives a dry, unhappy little laughter. “I know, I know. It’s all very bad. That’s just… That’s just what I am.”

“You aren’t bad, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, cupping his cheek. His heart is seizing. “Not by any measure. Your dreams are only intrusive; I was and am certain that you would not hurt me, ever. As for the slavers...”

“I don’t actually _want_ to blow up Kadavo,” Anakin says quickly. “I just felt—so much. And all I want to do is to be good for you.” His face flushes all of a sudden, betraying the exact meaning of his words. “But without you around…”

“Without me around you will still be yourself,” Obi-Wan says, gentle but firm. “Your best self. I know you to be kind, loyal, and just. I know you to be a brilliant Jedi, the best of us. You shouldn’t need me to be all of that. But”—he brushes his thumb across Anakin’s lip, stalling the objection as he has more to add—“I will not leave you bereft, Anakin. When it gets too loud in your mind, open it up to my side, and let me remind you that you will always come home to me.”

Something warm trembles in Anakin’s moist eyes. His smile reaches them now. His hands frame Obi-Wan’s face, and there’s renewed strength in his voice when he speaks. “We will come home to each other. Always.”

“That’s a promise,” Obi-Wan whispers.

Anakin leans in, and Obi-Wan lets him seal it with a kiss.


	8. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is almost uncharacteristic of Obi-Wan Kenobi that he has given up the immaculate ideal Jedi within him to love you.

This is the man who has your heart: a phenomenal pilot who doesn’t like to fly. A devastating warrior who’d rather not fight. A negotiator without peer who frankly prefers to sit alone in a quiet cave and meditate. Jedi Master. General in the Grand Army of the Republic. Member of the Jedi Council.

He used to never tell you how he felt inside. That he felt like none of those things. That he still felt like a Padawan, even as he raised you into adulthood.

He doesn’t tell you now, either. But you watch him sometimes, at night, when he rolls onto his back with closed eyes, the ardor only beginning to cool from your bodies, and you see it in the silver of his temples, the lines etched into his features. His battle skin is worn down by all his efforts to hide the vulnerable youth beneath. When you hold him, it is the youth in him that you whisper to. He doesn’t have to pretend for you, not anymore. You hope he knows this.

He is respected throughout the Jedi Order for his insight as well as his might. He has become the hero of the next generation of Padawans; he is the Jedi their Masters hold up as a model. He is the being that the Council assigns to their most important missions. He is modest, centered and always kind. He is the ultimate Jedi. It is characteristic of Obi-Wan Kenobi that he is entirely unaware of this.

It is almost uncharacteristic of Obi-Wan Kenobi that he has given up the immaculate ideal Jedi within him to love you.

As you stand side by side with him, victorious in the aftermath of the grueling, pointless war, you reel with the realization that the horror has ended. That you narrowly dodged a blast when you clung to him with every ounce of fierceness you have in your body and opened your eyes to the blatant manipulation of a politician you thought was a friend. That your loyal clone troopers discovered the harrowing secret switch installed in their own brain, early enough for the Jedi to slowly, secretly remove the chips from them one by one. That he, your beloved, made the wisest decision when he petitioned the Council to launch an investigation into the very governmental body that had presumed to prevail over the Order through all of this galaxy-wide conflict. You can hardly believe that you have stood side-by-side with the Council’s Masters to take down the most dire threat to the Republic, that you all have put a pause to the conflict, enough for Jedi and diplomats to mediate the rest. That he and you and everyone are alive and free and the sky is blue again.

So you turn to him and, heedless of the eyes that surround you both, you hold his face in your hands, hold him like you would hold the entire universe because that is what he is to you. You kiss him against your better judgment and his, and somehow, miraculously, he wraps an arm around you and sinks into it. Maybe he finally knows now that he can have this. You want nothing more than for him to realize what he deserves.

He opens his eyes, and calls your name, musically, magically. “Anakin,” he tells you, “let’s head home.”

Home. Home is the place with your own knighted apprentice, your dearest friends, your great extended family comprising the Order and the clone army. Home is where you fall in bed with him, and you stare at each other and you smile. Home awaits, warm and welcoming. The thought fills you with so much joy that you, no less of a Jedi General than Obi-Wan is, burst into tears on his shoulder. You love him the most. You can come home to each other now. You can come home to each other always.

This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker.

Forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed this little story as much as we enjoyed writing it :)


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